


A Dream of You

by Caprittarius_Rising



Category: Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2019-11-27 14:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprittarius_Rising/pseuds/Caprittarius_Rising
Summary: The story seen through the eyes of Mr. Darcy following the story line from the 2005 movie. Not necessarily meant to be in Regency style. Inspired by a comment from the director's commentary. Read with a British accent. Reviews are much appreciated. There will be more chapters to come.





	1. To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I set about writing a long time ago and have just taken up again for the first time in years. I do my own beta reading and editing, so please be kind!

_There was a woman in his bed._

Not just any woman, to be sure; a woman with whom his familiarity was quite intimate. From the curve of her pretty nose to the pattern of freckles atop her left foot, he knew her body and its rhythms and pleasures with certainty. Astoundingly, she delighted in his touch as much as he delighted in hers. He could recall in an instant the silky texture of her skin pressed against him both in heated passion and in cooler moments of more chaste affections. He could recall the feeling of taking her slowly to the peaks of passion as well as the sounds she made along the way—sounds that heated his blood without fail. 

Patiently, he watched her stir awake wrapped in nothing but bed linens still fragrant with the mingled scent of their bodies. Still and again he wanted her. Without question this scene had occurred before, perhaps hundreds of times in their shared history. An intense, all-encompassing love existed between them. Theirs was anything but a passing fancy or casual acquaintance; theirs was destiny, an answer to a question waiting to be found. And she? 

_She was his home, his life, his love and most remarkable of all she was his wife, the Mistress of Pemberley._

He awoke slowly with a sense of extreme disorientation. When his eyes opened reluctantly, even the familiar sight of his bedchamber at Netherfield failed to penetrate his dream-addled haze. For a moment, the false reality gripped him more strongly than the true, even as the latter encroached incrementally on his senses. He nearly turned toward * _her*_ side of the bed. A light floral aroma lingered in the air reminiscent of her skin. The music of her laughter seemed to have just faded from the room. 

As wakefulness finally won control, he bit back a loud groan, allowing his head to fall heavily against his pillow.

Who the devil _was_  this woman who plagued him? How could he dream so intimately about a woman for whom he hadn’t so much as a name? And how could a connection so strong, so sure in sleep leave next to nothing for him to cling to upon waking? Vague impressions of the relationship itself and his feelings toward her helped very little in the task of possible identification. 

Intermittently for months now he had experienced dreams of an alarmingly similar nature. One occurrence was easily dismissed as an anomaly, two a strange coincidence. A significant passage of time after the initial grouping of dreams caused him to nearly forget the mysterious female presence that visited at night. 

Until a few months later, when the dreams began to resurface, that is; then he attempted mightily to deny the forming of a clear pattern. All indications pointed to the dreams occurring in direct correlation to the level of turmoil in his life. Still, it could not possibly be the same as before, or so he told himself. 

However, when the dreams increased both in intensity and… specificity, Darcy began to worry outright. For the first time in his life, he entertained the possibility that he was being haunted by some kind of strange ghost.

Never in his life had he been so completely arrested by something intangible and certainly not by a dream. He knew there were some who sought to assign meaning to the images found during slumber as though they contained portentous information. And amongst these he likewise knew (never mind how) there were self-proclaimed fortune-tellers who claimed the ability to divine the future by interpreting such images—for a price, naturally. Not only did he find such a notion ridiculous, he had never before dreamed vividly enough to concern himself with any sort of deeper meaning.

Until now, of course. Or more precisely, until _her_.

Each time he dreamed, he felt closer to this woman as though her fate wove more securely and intricately with his own over time. Which was preposterous. He was not entirely convinced of the idea that God let alone destiny guided one’s life. (Not that he would ever own publicly to such an opinion. Only his private journal was privy to such Cartesian sentiment.) 

Still, specific details eluded his waking memory. Try as he might, all he could be certain of was her eyes. 

_Her eyes are brown._

_No, no._ Calling them simply brown was nothing short of injustice. They were a brown redolent of freshly turned loam, fertile and rich, ready to burst forth with life at any moment. Warm and lively, they were framed by a perfect fanning of dark eyelashes. The combination was more captivating than strictly beautiful, but he was more profoundly beguiled by those eyes than he cared to admit. 

_They are the finest eyes I have ever beheld and I have never seen them._

In more fanciful moments, he pondered the strange realization that never once had he supposed he might be dreaming about no one in particular, simply a faceless someone who may or may not be in his life now, later, or ever. This seemed the general and most logical interpretation of such whimsy. Nor did he ponder the possibility that he may have already encountered this woman in his sphere. Neither possibility occurred to him until long after the dreams began.

Unaccountably, he simply _knew_  these did not apply. A certainty for which he could offer no explanation and could not seem to alter whatsoever, no matter what he did.

Even more strange, he knew instinctively he would find not even the smallest reflection of _her_  in any woman of his acquaintance to date. In less guarded moments, he found himself clandestinely searching the eyes of unfamiliar females (and familiar, just in case) hoping to find those that caused his heart to pound as it did in the dreams, a sensation he would never admit to missing when he failed to feel it. His disappointment, though acute, was quickly ignored or filtered away for later analysis if he allowed for any at all. 

He also quite steadfastly refused to acknowledge the increasingly obvious supposition that he was plainly waiting for this woman to enter his life. Surely the endless prattle surrounding him in society regarding love and marriage had finally infiltrated his senses. 

His mind had certainly concocted its own ideal version of events. After all, it was perfectly natural that a part of him should wish to marry for love and affection rather than mere pecuniary gains. Realistically, however, he had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge in such romantic fancies.

Hardly helpful was the added annoyance that each recent repetition of the nocturnal fantasy left him with a sharp sense of a thing missing in his life just at a time when he felt quite at ease with his general circumstances. Thus far, he had maintained the success of his estate without marriage, society be damned. Eventually he would have to marry if only to procure an heir but it was an inevitability he chose not to dwell on yet despite the pressure he felt increasing year after year.

Needless to say, the morning after such episodes always saw him in the blackest of moods. Days would pass before he could get through an entire one without reflecting on brown eyes clouded with desire upon a tender kiss or something far, far less appropriate. If several nights in succession featured dreams, he was doomed to foul moods for a least a week.

All of this vexed him to no end. If he had to dream about women at all, why must he dream about an affair passionate enough to make him blush? Though hardly naive, Darcy was not in the habit of meditating on that sort of intimacy in any setting but a bedchamber. To have explicit images pop into his mind while in company, while addressing his staff, or even at his club (no doubt the _most_  suitable on the list, though not according to his scruples) was not at all to his comfort. 

Once, while directing his housekeeper to refresh the linens in a rarely used room, an unseemly scenario involving a dalliance in the closet of that room filled his senses, making him stop mid-instruction and cough. Mrs. Reynolds asked if she could fetch him some tea with honey for the dryness of his throat or a cold compress to ease his flushed skin.

Darcy had merely thanked her, dismissed her, and then marched himself outside without a coat on (as it was quite cold at the time) to ease the heat in his own way, though not before fuming at himself and _her_ , where he could more comfortably lay the blame.

No respectable woman would behave in such a manner and certainly no Mistress of Pemberley — past, present or future. Or so he wished to believe.

Yet, all the disappointment and frustration he coldly turned away in company and daylight returned with great vengeance when he was alone and in the solitude of darkness. 

In those moments, he felt lost and more alone than ever, now and then going so far as to wish he could talk to someone from whom he didn’t need to hide his true feelings and opinions. _Which is also not something one can expect of a wife_ , he’d thought.

Certainly he experienced sensations of supposed isolation in the past. When his father passed, it had taken nearly a year to completely purge the incredible sense of loneliness the absence created. Aside from the grief, he felt adrift and inadequate to the challenges laid before him. 

Master of Pemberley and guardian to his young sister both felt like titles he was ill prepared to bear though he had been groomed for both his entire life. He approached these obstacles as he approached everything, however, with an unwavering sense of propriety and obligation to his name and rank. Behaving as though every decision he made was unquestionable no matter the situation took no little practice until one day he came to believe it himself. He could allow very little to sway his stated opinions or belief in his right to express them lest he come to look weak or indecisive.

At times he wished the elder Darcy had left a slightly less illustrious legacy to his only son. In times of greatest uncertainty, he envied the simplest peasant the ease of near anonymity and sense of being answerable to no one but oneself.

Suffice it to say that for many reasons Mr. Darcy could be forgiven for awakening in an already foul state of mind on the morning in question. The dreams had been occurring with even more frequency of late but on this particular occasion he was more irked than usual. He had surmised some time ago the woman he dreamt of was somehow connected to his dream self. Because he was simultaneously shocked and fascinated by the… ardent nature of their imaginary relationship, he took for granted the association was more in line with that of a mistress. He never once fathomed that their connection was matrimony! 

Mistress of Pemberley indeed. The idea of such a woman as his wife was laughable at best.

When he finally got his bearings, he remembered there was actually more than one reason to dread the day. Not only was he cursed to struggle against dredges of elusive and fictitious memories, which would undoubtedly present themselves at the most inopportune moments, but today was also the much anticipated (and much dreaded) Meryton Assembly. (He refused to think on it in the same terms as a ball no matter how similar it was to an event of that name.) Somehow he had allowed Bingley to plead and cajole him into pledging to provide moral support during what was sure to be an entirely boorish evening.

Bingley had the habit of working himself into a bit of a frenzy before such events, all but convinced something disastrous would befall him without Darcy’s steadying presence. Darcy, on the other hand, held the opinion that it would be far more productive, especially to his own interests, to best encourage Bingley by building his confidence beforehand to a level high enough for his anxieties to allow him to attend such events with only his sister Caroline as company. No matter how often he expressed similar sentiments to Bingley, however, the younger man always managed to convince Darcy to accompany him with the added promise to attempt to enjoy the evening. Darcy rarely managed to uphold the second half of this agreement.

Therefore, it was with a very audible groan that Darcy raised his hands and scrubbed his face vigorously in an attempt to rid his mind of the decidedly libidinous dream. He would need all of his wits about him if he were to survive the assembly intact. 

Joseph, his temporary valet, who had been hovering in the dressing chamber just beyond, cracked the adjoining door slightly at the noise.

“Forgive me, sir. Are you in need of assistance?”

“No, not at all. Why do you ask?” Darcy spoke rather sharply, mildly surprised at the man’s unorthodox intrusion. Thus far, the man had proven to be quite as proficient and discreet in service as his man Benson at Pemberley. Usually, Joseph awaited his presence in the dressing chamber with all the necessary accoutrements for his morning toilette already laid out.

“My apologies Mr. Darcy, sir,” he stammered. “I only ask because you’ve slept rather later than usual this morning.” Darcy tilted his head in confusion. He usually rose his own volition about an hour after daybreak unless he wanted to take an early ride.

“Really? What is the hour?”

“’Tis just past nine, sir. I hope you have not taken ill?”

“No, I thank you. I shall be but a moment, Joseph.” Darcy sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

“Very good, sir,” Joseph said with relief. The door clicked softly shut.

Sitting up, Darcy laughed mirthlessly. Though it was not in his nature to indulge such thoughts, he was hard pressed to ignore the sense that fortune was not favoring him this morning. For as he threw the bed covers away, he realized his body had betrayed him in more than one involuntary fashion. It seemed he had more to be embarrassed by than simply sleeping too late.


	2. Perchance To Dream

“Ah, Darcy! Good morning. I was beginning to wonder if I should have Joseph wake you with a dash of cold water!” Charles Bingley smiled at his jest as Darcy entered the breakfast room some twenty minutes later. “It is strange, though. There seems to be exactly the same level of brandy in the snifter as there was when I retired last night,” he said with mock seriousness. “Perhaps you paid a servant to refill it? I shall have to ferret out the responsible party!” 

“If only there were such an excuse for my late rising, though you are well aware I rarely overindulge in spirits,” Darcy replied with a frown. “I fear my rest has lately been somewhat erratic, I know not why. My apologies, Charles.” He wondered briefly why he bothered to feign ignorance as to his troubled sleep. Perhaps it would make the strange burden slightly easier to bear if he were straightforward with his friend about the dreams or at least as straightforward as propriety allowed.

“Nonsense, Darcy. I’ve reason to believe the boundaries of Netherfield will still be there later today if not tomorrow.” The two of them had planned to ride the full boundary line of the property so as to become familiar with its extent and holdings. As it was, they would hardly have time to ride half its length before returning to prepare for the night’s festivities. 

“And as my guest,” Bingley continued, “I should think it perfectly acceptable to overindulge on occasion be it in sleep or in spirits. Though I must say never once in our acquaintance have I known you to rise later than my sister.” Bingley chuckled to himself, soundly dismissing Darcy’s concern with his usual affability and returning to his newspaper. 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Darcy agreed quietly, surprised at the sagacity of Bingley’s observations. 

Throughout the course of their friendship, Darcy had found himself inclined to act as an adviser of sorts to the younger man, primarily because Bingley simply lacked experience in matters of business. Secondarily, Bingley needed a bit of general direction. Often, Darcy forgot their age difference was only a matter of a few years for it often felt like more. 

He knew very well that theirs was an unlikely friendship. With Bingley’s amiability contrasted with his far more solemn nature, Darcy imagined people often wondered what they found in common. Simply put, they each provided a modicum of balance to the other.

Aside from this, Bingley was one of the few friends whose continued relationship never seemed to hinge on the Darcy name and the connections it afforded. Such as it had always been between them, Bingley came far closer seeing Darcy’s true self than others he spent more time with, apart from his sister.

Something in Bingley’s open and unassuming nature that morning compelled Darcy to ruminate on the possibility of sharing a little of his troubles with his friend. Though not the first time he considered this, it felt abruptly vital to share the matter with someone. And who better than his closet friend?

If such a conversation were to take place, the question was how much to divulge and to what end. He thought it unlikely Bingley would be able to offer any great insight not already entertained. He fought against the immediate concern that discussing such subjects would invariably expose him to ridicule. While chancy, if anyone could be trusted to keep his confidence, it was Charles. Though open and sometimes playful in nature, Bingley would surely not tease too severely if he explained just how thoroughly the situation aggravated him. Perhaps revealing his distress would diminish the power the dreams appeared to hold over him. Most enticing was the possibility that speaking of the dreams might cause them to cease altogether!

_If only the solution could_ be _so easy_ , Darcy sighed to himself.

Such was the case that Darcy had just opened his mouth to speak when Caroline Bingley entered the room.

“Mr. Darcy! Oh, how glad we are to see you no longer abed,” she remarked with a curtsey. “May I presume you are in good health?” There was a pause in which Darcy could only blink at her in consternation. Why did everyone seem to be under the impression that he was ill?

“He is well, Caroline,” Bingley interjected, giving Darcy an odd look. “Just a bit out of sorts, it seems.” Darcy cleared his throat uncomfortably, unaccustomed as he was to the authority Bingley seemed to have commanded this morning.

“So I see.” Caroline swept in to resume her seat at the table, taking the opportunity to brush past him closer than necessary.She prepared herself a cup of tea, turning towards him as she did so as to invite further conversation. Darcy merely scowled and attacked his breakfast dish with ferocity. The urge to divulge his private troubles seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it arose. He was now only irritated with himself for contemplating such drastic action in the first place.

“Charles, I find it is unseasonably warm outside,” Caroline said. Darcy highly doubted she’d been outside at all; it was far more likely she’d simply inquired of a servant the current outdoor climate. “The pair of you, indeed all of us, had much better rest this afternoon if you still insist we all attend that dreadful assembly this evening. I fear we shall need to conserve our energies.” She sipped daintily at her tea as Bingley folded the newspaper and handed it across the table to Darcy. The latter tried not to curl his lip at the drawn out enunciation of the word _dreadful_.

“Yes, I still _insist_ on attending, Caroline. Really, I don’t see why you are so reluctant,” Bingley declared. “I have already promised several new acquaintances that I shall attend with the rest of my party, as you are well aware. It would be unacceptable for me to attended alone now, as Darcy would no doubt agree.” Caroline pouted prettily at the truth of his words.

“Of course, I know it is important for you to make a good impression, Brother,” she said. “I simply find these country manners to be every bit an unrefined as I expected. I’m sure Mr. Darcy would agree with _me_ on that score.” She cast a demurely heavy lidded look in Darcy’s direction over the top of her teacup. He quickly cast his eyes down to his own cup.

“’Country’ manners?” Bingley’s brows drew together. “I confess I have not notice a great difference from ‘city’ manners to what you call ‘country’ manners.” 

“Charles, do be serious.”

“Only if I must be, Caroline. Actually, Darcy,” he turned toward his other companion, “I have it on good authority that there will be no shortage of young ladies to dance with, some of whom are reported to be singularly pretty! Why, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn alone has five daughters, all said to be beauties in their own right, but in particular the eldest two.” Caroline rolled her eyes meaningfully, giving Darcy a knowing look.

“Of course they are said to be local beauties! Those who would believe so hardly have any other beauty to judge by this far from Town. Honestly, Charles, I am sure there are but a few who are truly pretty and even less who are accomplished. I shall suffer for want of society.”

“Nevertheless, I intend to judge for myself and have a perfectly enjoyable time in the process. Come now, what say you, Darcy?”

Darcy hesitated in his reply, loathe as he was to broach a familiar point of contention between them in his already darkened temper. “I do recall hearing of the Bennet sisters, Bingley, but I would endeavor to keep from setting any hopes too high,” he finished diplomatically.

“Well, I for one am looking forward to the evening. As should you, Caroline. If they have no beauty to judge by then you will certainly provide them with an example to emulate. And perhaps you will both feel differently when faced with all five Miss Bennets at once. I am sure they will be uniformly charming,” Bingley encouraged with twinkling eyes. Caroline brightened at her brother’s compliment and seemed far more inclined to accept her fate than before receiving such flattery.

Darcy nodded slightly, uncertain whether the comment was merely meant to tease or Bingley simply did not understand how improper it would be for him to honor any of the daughters in attendance with a dance. Even if he cared to dance he would have to be extremely cautious as to whom he extended an invitation so as not to give the wrong impression. Either way, he was fated to pass the evening in some form of discontent or other. 

But fate (or whatever force or absence thereof to which one might attribute such activity), tends to be far less predictable than humans might prefer. Whatever the case may be, the life of poor Mr. Darcy proffered delights sufficient to entice even the most indolent of meddlers. Even with the recent excess activity of his mind, he could scarcely have imagined what really awaited him.


	3. To Be

As the carriage traversed the last stretch of road toward the assembly hall, Darcy’s apprehension peaked. Fortunately, his reluctance continued to go unnoticed by Bingley, who was quite absorbed by his own case of nerves. As it was, several times throughout the journey Darcy made himself inhale deeply so as to keep from loosing a deep sough of displeasure.

His own reticence could not be attributed to nerves, but rather a strong distaste for situations that caused him to feel like a prized show pony. Within his usual social circle, at least, the feeling was more comparable to passing inspection than blatant and unpleasant gawking and fawning. He feared tonight’s gathering would subject him to the latter sort of attention — notion he despised. 

No doubt he would begin by hearing whispers of Bingley’s fortune (as he was the newest actual resident of the neighborhood) only to be eclipsed by murmurings of his own ten thousand a year. And just as expected, the evening would end with everyone convinced of the superiority of Bingley’s amiable nature and fervent wishes that he was the wealthier of the two of them.

Not that Darcy particularly minded the last bit. Once the mothers, fathers, daughters, et al., drew that inevitable conclusion, he would be free to focus on enduring the boisterous cacophony that marked this sort of affair.

To be more precise, he would be free to practice distracting his mind from lingering overlong on thoughts that crept in during idle moments. He had fought for distractions the entire day. In fact, the thoughts of _her_ seemed even more insidious than usual. He began to think of her as a small child demanding attention.

All of this was much to Caroline Bingley’s distinct consternation, as she was even less able than normal to coax him into conversation. She spent the afternoon half-heartedly practicing the pianoforte whilst expressing her dismay in the form of what she hoped was a pretty pout about her mouth. Bingley too had commented on his obvious inattentiveness, stating that although Darcy had stared at a book for above a half hour, he had yet to turn a page.

In light of all this, Darcy found it even more difficult than usual to hide his discomfiture under the inscrutable countenance he spent much time and effort perfecting. Try as his might, he could think of no justification for an early escape back to the safety of Netherfield that wouldn’t involve exercising obvious subterfuge. For the first time in years, he contemplated feigning illness as means of avoidance, but dismissed the idea as being just as juvenile as he had been the last time he attempted it. (He was eleven and trying to get out of lessons with his detested languages tutor. Mrs. Reynolds was not fooled.) Moreover, he hated the prospect of breaking his word to Bingley even on so trivial a matter.

_A man’s word is his bloody bond, after all… damn._

After what seemed an age, the carriage stopped and their party alighted. To Darcy’s surprise, the men at the doors wore the white powdered wigs that usually adorned servants of prominent families. They bowed slightly in tandem and moved to push the heavy double doors open widely enough to admit the three of them as one. Darcy nearly drew back when he realized their formation put him at the head of the party with Charles and Caroline on either side and just behind him. Though he was tempted to insist Bingley go first, it was customary to allow those of superior circumstances to precede others. Before he could think to shift position, momentum carried them past the threshold.

As they were fashionably late due to Caroline’s desire to make a grand entrance, there was already a dance in progress. The space was exceptionally crowded; they entered at the long end of the hall and subsequently, at the end of the line of couples. A young lady first spied their presence and stared, reaching blindly to tug the arm of the last dancer in line to halt her movement. Eventually, the next dancers noticed the delay and turned to stare as well.

Everything ground to a halt. A hush stole across the room as the music faded. All eyes turned toward the newcomers with many craning necks to see past their neighbors. A man approached whom Darcy recognized as Sir William Lucas, a member of the local gentry who had called previously at Netherfield.

“How good of you to come.” Sir William began leading them slowly through the middle of the room, dividing the line of dancers on either side. Darcy scanned the crowd disinterestedly, half listening to the older man’s quiet introductions. 

As the throng parted, he felt the familiar itch under his collar that signified his hidden but nonetheless squirming discomfort at having so many pairs of eyes assessing him at once. He brought up the ‘shield’, as his sister called it, and let his mind and focus go blank, allowing his gaze to sweep over the blurred myriad of faces. And as he turned his head toward the right, the absolute last sight he expected to behold caught his attention. 

The very eyes he could not forget. Brown and rich, sparkling, fringed with dark lashes. The finest eyes he never beheld.

There, in the face of an unexceptional girl wearing a dark green dress, were the eyes of his mystery woman. 

No. Surely he was mistaken. _No, it cannot be_ , he reasoned. _For heaven’s sake, ‘tis nothing but a figment!_  

Yet, for an instant he was sure he recognized that particular brown hue. Quickly he fixed his gaze as she dropped a curtsey with the women around her, eyes lowered. 

Then, as though she sensed his disquiet, her eyes flickered up to look at him directly. He shifted his gaze ahead hastily, barely able to contain a bombardment of emotion. His heartbeat quickened as he somehow knew it would. 

Those eyes. _Her_ eyes. Eyes he had seen dozens of times in a multitude of different expressions in what might as well be another life.

Fortunately for one who had been walking since just after his first birthday, his legs continued propelling him forward unabated though he was otherwise unaware of his surroundings. He felt abruptly disconnected from his environs as though plunged into a suddenly tangible dream world. 

Hopeful that he had not stared excessively long at this stranger, he prayed hurriedly that no one had noticed his odd behavior, least of all the girl in green. The interval must have been short if he was able to continue forward without impeding the Bingleys behind him.

They continued to the end of the room as he forced his expression back into its usual mask, ignoring his confusion for the moment. Darcy kept quiet as Bingley and Sir William continued conversing together. The instruments began playing again as the dancers took up their former places as though there had been no interruption. He glanced in the direction of the girl but she had turned back toward her companions, thus preventing further study.

How very inconvenient indeed to encounter the apparent embodiment of his dream here in the country at an assembly he had no wish to attend! And on a day in particular when he would have dearly loved to be shut up alone with nothing more than a book to keep company with his disagreeable mood. 

Obviously he was mistaken, his mind playing tricks on him. Clearly, he projected these strange secret desires onto an unwitting, unknown young woman who happened to have brown eyes. His restless nights apparently caused more injury to his psyche than he previously imagined. He would consult his physician as soon as he was back in London. _And that is the end of it!_

Darcy forced the matter from his mind ruthlessly, thus preventing anyone from noticing his preoccupation. Proficient as he was at maintaining composure, even Bingley did not notice his unease. For a moment, he was consumed by the process of convincing himself he was experiencing nothing more than the fruition of an exhausted mind and didn’t pay heed to the group of people lining up for introduction.

Until he noticed the group included the girl in green, that is.

Mr. Bennet of Longbourn, who had also been a guest at Netherfield several days ago, led the group. Darcy darted a glance in the girl’s direction as understanding dawned. She must be one of his five daughters. 

_Perfect_ , Darcy thought, keeping his face neutral. _Now they shall expect the pony to prance about at their every whim._

Little did he know, his attempt at neutrality was perceived as near incivility. For, as his face settled into a habitually bored expression, some of his dismal spirits bled through until he appeared quite disdainful indeed.

“Mr. Bingley, my eldest daughter you know,” Sir William began. Charlotte Lucas gave a small bob and smiled politely. “Mrs. Bennet, Miss Jane Bennet, Elizabeth, and Miss Mary Bennet.” Each lady curtseyed in turn. 

Almost against his will, Darcy took note of her name and turned it over in his mind.

_Elizabeth Bennet_.

Instantly, Bingley appeared transfixed by the eldest Miss Bennet. Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though she was arguably the prettiest of the lot. Fair of coloring and face, Jane Bennet appeared gentle and ethereal in a pale rose colored gown only slightly out of fashion, her flaxen hair curled delicately around a lovely face featuring eyes very much like _her’s_ but for a subtly rounder shape.

“It is a pleasure,” their mother enthused. Her high voice grated so harshly on Darcy’s raw nerves, he barely managed not to wince. “I have two others but they are already dancing.” Wryly, he turned his eyes toward the dancers and couldn’t help but wonder if they were the two laughing more raucously than the rest. For reasons he could not yet name, it seemed befitting of the general tone his evening was clearly taking on.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” Bingley grinned, good humored as always, hardly able to tear his eyes from Jane Bennet.

“And may I introduce Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire,” Sir William enunciated pointedly. 

Yet another stab of irritation made itself known at this machination. What would normally strike him as a perfectly normal introduction took on an entirely different, obscenely overt nature due to his mood. Despite the fact that no great sense of recognition overtook the faces of the group, there was no doubt they knew about him no matter how much of that knowledge now showed on their faces. This country-bred slip of a girl and her ridiculous mother probably couldn’t help themselves and had already turned calculating eyes toward his and Bingley’s fortunes. Neither respective sum could escape the notice of those anxiously awaiting the opportunity to throw their daughters in the way of men with sufficient enough fortune to more than secure their future. And no one would turn away the chance to secure said future with ten thousand a year as opposed to five thousand.

_After all, it would be far more expedient to secure the future of the entire family rather than one daughter alone_ , Darcy thought bitterly. He’d long ago learned to identify the behavior after having seen it all too often amongst the London set. The greater the fortune, the more mercenary the efforts became.

He kept his face purposefully bland and unresponsive to the group before him, wondering vaguely what it would be like to enter into a gathering without his credentials preceding him. 

From the corner of his eye he noted, albeit unwillingly, an expression of barely concealed amusement on the face of the girl in green in the form of slightly pursed lips and a tiny lift of finely arched brows. 

His irritation doubled unreasonably.

With Bingley was so clearly enamored of the eldest daughter, he could only imaging the collective Bennets’ thoughts would immediately turn to pairing himself with the second eldest. 

_Elizabeth,_ his mind supplied traitorously. _She is Miss Elizabeth._

Inexplicably, the niggling thread of this alone threatened to unravel what remained of his equanimity. 

He watched miserably as Bingley stepped forward to speak with the two eldest Bennet sisters. To his continuing dismay, Caroline Bingley remained steadfastly by his side.

“How do you like it here in Hertfordshire, Mr. Bingley?” He heard the girl in green ask, ignoring a small jump in his chest at the mere sound of her voice.

“Very much,” Bingley replied, smiling.

“The library at Netherfield, I’ve heard, is one of the finest in the country.” Her voice again. Another jump suppressed.

“Yes. It fills me with guilt. I’m not a very good reader, you see. I prefer being out of doors. Oh… I mean, I _can_  read, of course… And that’s not to say you can’t read out of doors… um,” Charles faltered blushingly.

“I wish I read more, but there always seem to be so many other things to do,” Miss Bennet provided.

“Yes! That’s exactly what I meant,” Charles breathed gratefully.

Caroline, who had been observing this exchange with an air of general boredom, suddenly saw fit to interrupt Darcy’s contemplative state. “Charles gets so adorably flustered when taken with a new pretty face,” she drawled with a coquettish smile. “Speaking of libraries, Mr. Darcy, your library at Pemberley is astonishingly good.” He found the need to clear his throat before speaking.

“Thank you. It is the work of many generations.”

“And then you have added so much to it yourself.”

“Indeed I have. I thank you for your attentions to my book collection, Caroline,” he said, hoping to close the topic. He could well imagine her desire to be elsewhere nearly rivaled his own, though for undoubtedly different reasons. Still, he found himself unequal to the task of sharing this commiseration with her verbally. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice but instead appeared to find a modicum of comfort in the supposition that she and Darcy were of a like mind as to the decided inferiority of this particular gathering.

No indeed. Had Miss Bingley been privy to Darcy’s thoughts at that moment, her response would have been quite unpredictable. Shock mostly certainly would dominate had she known Darcy had already repeatedly pushed from his mind various unseemly scenarios supplanting Miss Elizabeth Bennet in the place of his mystery dream woman. (An exercise he would repeat frequently throughout the evening.) 

Caroline, of course, would be shocked in general not only by the existence of the mystery woman, but also that Mr. Darcy had dreams of any kind, let alone those of an unseemly nature. (Miss Bingley herself happened to be inclined to slumber so deeply as to cause more than one chambermaid to believe her to have expired in sleep.) Jealously would likely follow closely the moment she realized his thoughts, unseemly or otherwise, had nothing whatsoever to do with herself. 

Thankfully, for all involved, no one in present company yet claimed the ability to divine others’ thoughts.

For his part, Darcy had resolved to bestow no young lady with any attention at all regardless of her resemblance to ephemeral dream people. Redoubling his efforts to maintain his mask of indifference took enough of his concentration that he almost missed Bingley claiming the next dance with Miss Bennet. Suddenly, Miss Elizabeth was standing near him, looking on as Bingley and her sister maneuvered through the crowd to await the beginning of the next dance. As the music started, she turned to him.

“Do you dance, Mr. Darcy?” she inquired brightly.

“Not if I can help it,” he replied tersely, without really looking at her. From the edge of his vision, he saw her turn away from him, a befuddled expression upon her face. She blinked, at a loss as to how to further the conversation and, after several more awkward seconds ticked by, walked away.

Regret quickly filled him as he turned his eyes to the floor. _It’s just as well_ , he told himself sternly. Surely she did not expect him to honor her with a dance. Even if she had, it was better he make his intentions known now that he would not be a participant in the night’s revelry but merely an observer.

_That’s no cause to be rude_ , the traitorous inner voice muttered. Oddly, it sounded very much like the voice of Mrs. Reynolds as she would have sounded while scolding Darcy as a child. It was a tone she hadn’t used on him in years but even thinking of it could still shame him.

As it seemed his current lot to revel in ignorance, however, he hastily turned his thoughts to other matters.

“We are a long way from Grovsner Square, are we not, Mr. Darcy?” Caroline’s lip was all but curled in distaste. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, following her eyes to where two young girls chatted and giggled boisterously with Mrs. Bennet. “The youngest Miss Bennets I presume,” she indicated with a dainty roll of her eyes. Even from some distance, they could hear both girls expressing their continuous and very loud delight at the news that Meryton would very soon host a group of militia officers.

Darcy’s frown deepened at their behavior but still he gave no verbal reply. A feeling of disquiet still possessed him after his first interaction with Miss Elizabeth and he thought it best to hold his tongue lest he risk displaying his altered condition. Nothing but a period of quiet solitude would restore his peace of mind. Unfortunately, such moments were sure to be lacking until their return to Netherfield; a return he was beginning to feel could not come too soon.

Presently, the dance in which Bingley was paired with Jane Bennet came to an end. Darcy had arrived at the number four after attempting to count the number of times his friend nearly lost track of his steps because of his attention to the lady. Now, Charles made a mad dash in Darcy’s direction, no doubt seeking a confidant in his newest interest and a soothing balm to his nerves.

The rest of the crowd broke into small conversational groups whilst the musicians took a moment to avail themselves of refreshment. The pronounced hush in talk immediately surrounding Darcy gave him the peculiar feeling that he had become a topic of discussion. Rather than standing idly in the face of such scrutiny, he took the chance to stretch his legs, as he was still determined to refrain from any other physical activity. As it happened, he met Bingley in front of a line of staggered wooden seating. Absently, he realized he’d lost sight of Miss Elizabeth in the interim.

“There you are, Darcy. I say, this is rather more enjoyable than even I expected! What do you say?” His eyes lit up with his smile as the two men meandered down the length of the room. 

“For my part, I say it’s also rather more crowded,” Darcy responded quietly.

“I’ve never seen so many pretty girls in my life.” Bingley’s enthusiasm continued unfettered as they slowed to a stop. Darcy briefly considered telling him to have his vision inspected, but decided against the idea.

“You were dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” he said instead. The words tasted strangely of falsehood even as they left his lips. A hollow sensation akin to dishonesty filled the pit of his stomach. He quickly dismissed it as nothing more than hunger.

“She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld!” Bingley’s eyes lit up again, seizing upon the subject he wished to discuss most with fervor. “But her sister Elizabeth is very agreeable, too,” he added hastily, with a suggestive raise of his brows.

“Perfectly tolerable, I dare say,” he allowed quickly, the same void creeping into his abdomen. “But not handsome enough to tempt me. Return to your partner and enjoy her smiles. You’re wasting your time with me.” Bingley appeared to have barely heard him, turning away with a faintly thankful nod, already distracted by the pursuit of Miss Bennet. In his absence, Darcy struggled not to make a face. He had certainly expected Mrs. Bennet, possibly even Elizabeth herself, would imagine a natural pairing of the two of them, but not Bingley. 

_Where there are young ladies unattached, there are visions of matrimony dancing in their heads_ , he mused crossly, _for a single man in possession of a good fortune simply must be in want of a wife._

Oddly, he found he was mildly disappointment Charles didn’t try harder to win his participation. Usually, he worked for the better part of an hour to get Darcy to merely socialize if not ask a lady to dance, even if it was only Caroline. Perhaps Bingley finally understood that in such a setting, Darcy could ill afford to display any interest in any of the ladies present. Such an attachment would be an affront to his family name.

Still, it was something of a standing tradition between the two friends. Even before they had set out from Netherfield, Bingley had made sure to reference a second time the expected surplus of young ladies. Darcy had fully anticipated having to parry Bingley’s encouragements throughout the night, citing his customary dislike of dancing. It seemed Charles was more taken with Miss Bennet than he previously believed. He resolved to keep a closer eye on the situation lest his friend develop an unequal or unsuitable regard.

Never mind that such activity would also divert his mind from other occupation.

Slowly, he made a circuit of the room, eventually coming back to his former position near the large fireplace. As he came to a stop, a flash of deep green crossed his vision. Purposefully, he averted his eyes, hardly noticing her progress across the floor nor her acceptance of an invitation issued by a stout young man with curly brown hair. Her enthusiasm in this acceptance also escaped his notice, as did her ease of movement once the dance began.

He laid the blame squarely at the feet of her unusual color of dress every time his eyes were drawn to her. 

_Does no one else in the whole of Meryton wear green?_

Bingley had this time partnered with Charlotte Lucas, as Miss Bennet had evidently already promised this set to another. Though Charles seemed to be enjoying himself nonetheless, Darcy noticed his attention, when not on the movements of the dance, quite frequently strayed to the other lady. He noted, too, that Miss Elizabeth was similarly aware of Bingley’s distraction and took delight in it. Again, Darcy tore his eyes away from her, admonishing himself firmly.

In the midst of his self-recrimination, a sound rang out, carrying across the room with more volume than ought to have been possible; a sound which gave him an impossible sense of familiarity though he had never truthfully heard its likeness.

Over the din of music and conversation came a melodious peel of tinkling laughter so full of vivacity and mirth he knew an uncharacteristic desire to join in. It brought feelings of intense intimacy strong enough made him flush with embarrassment as though the whole room was privy to his plight. His mind filled with an enticing picture of brown eyes closing on a sigh of pleasure. And he knew without looking from whom the laughter came.

Focusing his eyes on the far wall, he waited for the tension in his is stomach to subside. Unbidden, memories of a salacious bent assailed him one after another. The dam he’d spent the evening constructing piece by piece broke in fiery splendor. The softness of her lips; her fingers kneading his bare skin; the throaty hum she made when they joined; these and more systematically entered his mind and were firmly pushed away.

The wall at which he stared might have had a hole burned clear through it with the ferocity of his feelings in that moment. 

For what felt like an epoch of time, Darcy found himself in a state of mortified arousal for the second time that day. Once again, his body seemed determined to act against him. For the first time in his life, he felt immense gratitude to be surrounded by people and activity that prevented his person from being scrutinized too closely. He was also thankful for the double layering of fabric that constructed the front of his breeches.

Fortunately for poor Darcy, the dance was an unruly and lively thing and no one much noticed his concerns. Not even the ever present Miss Bingley, who had fortuitously taken herself off to the refreshment table, was aware his predicament. (No doubt this was only undertaken so she could later make snide comments about the inadequacy of the offerings.) 

For nearly ten minutes, Darcy forced his mind to dwell on cold weather, cold water, and his Aunt Catherine. Though it still angered him, he even resorted to thinking about the debacle at Ramsgate (a subject he avoided at nearly any cost). Until his blood cooled sufficiently from one source, he was happy to channel it’s heat toward anger rather than arousal, at least until he stopped feeling so thoroughly exposed.

By the time the dance came to an end, Darcy had recovered and made his way haltingly through the crowd toward Bingley. He intended to tell his friend that he had a sudden headache and wished to leave immediately after the next dance. The previous resolution to avoid the use illness as an excuse was quite forgotten. Hesitant though he was to cut the evening short for Charles, he desired greatly to be away from the apparent incarnation of the woman from his dreams.

Such was his desperation, he even resolved to take the carriage back to Netherfield and have it return for the Bingleys if necessary.

Once again, however, other plans prevailed, this time in the form of the prodigiously civil Mrs. Bennet. The instant the dance was ended, she pounced upon Bingley, effusive in her praise of both his and Jane’s dancing ability. As Darcy drew close, the group grew to include the very girl he least desired to see.

“Your friend Miss Lucas is a most amusing young woman,” Bingley was saying to her.

“Oh, yes! I adore her,” Miss Elizabeth returned with genuine feeling. Darcy tried not to look at her mouth as she spoke.

“It is a pity she’s not more handsome,” Mrs. Bennet observed abruptly, afraid Bingley’s comment implied a danger to his preference for Jane. Bingley himself appeared entirely taken aback at hearing such a criticism stated so blatantly.

“Mama!” Miss Elizabeth said in shock, attempting to communicate a warning with her eyes the impropriety of expounding on this remark.

“Oh, not that Lizzie would ever admit that she’s plain,” Mrs. Bennet continued heedlessly. “Of course, it is my Jane who’s considered the beauty of the county.”

“No, Mama—Mama, please!“ Jane put in, rightly embarrassed by her mother’s immodesty. A faint stain colored her cheeks becomingly and her mother spoke over her, not to be stopped.

“When she was but fifteen, a gentleman was so much in love with her, I was sure he would make her an offer. However… he did write her some very pretty verses—”

“—And that put paid to it,” Miss Elizabeth jumped in impatiently, placing a hand on her mothers arm to stay her. Clearly, she had been awaiting the opportunity to end her sister’s mortification. “I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love.”

“I thought that poetry was the food of love.” Darcy responded without thinking, nearly starting at the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t set out to speak at all, especially not to the one person hounding his thoughts and certainly not in a conversation concerning love, of all things.

“Of a fine, stout love it may. But I am convinced if it is but a vague inclination, one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead,” she replied without hesitation with a sly twinkle in her eyes. His narrowed on her, even as he became conscious that the others’ eyes were trained on the two of them as the volley began.

“So what do you recommend to encourage affection?” he wondered, unable to hold her piercing gaze. His eyes flickered away to indicate Bingley standing next to him. Before he realized what he was asking, her reply was upon him.

“Dancing. Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.” 

A feeling of cold swept through him. She held his stare pointedly, far longer than propriety deemed appropriate, then curtseyed slowly, turned on her heel and walked away.

Frozen in place, he stared after her. After a moment, he realized his mouth was open slightly and shut it with an audible click. 

_It’s not possible_ , he thought. He was sure she’d been nowhere near when he made that ill-humored remark. How did she know? How had she _heard_? Somehow she knew the exact word he had earlier used to describe her to Bingley.

For all his cold exterior, Darcy next felt the hot flush of shame throughout his body as she increased the distance between them. He watched her retreating back, as she continued to the other end of the room and through the double doors without so much as a hitch in her stride. 

Not since he was a student had he cause to feel so thoroughly set down in conversation. He was far more accustomed to the role of instigator rather than recipient of such an exchange. How dare she presume to scold him in such a public venue? His behavior may not have been entirely above reproach, but she need not draw attention to the fact.

After a time, Darcy realized the next dance was starting around him and was once again faintly thankful for the mass of people that prevented his strange behavior from drawing undue attention. His legs felt leaden as he made his way to the side blindly. No small part of him wanted to follow her, though whether to apologize or rail at her he wasn’t sure. As long as he remained surrounded by strangers he knew there would be no end to his inner chaos. He prayed Bingley’s successful evening would make him amenable to leaving as soon as may be.

For Darcy, a swift end to this miserable outing would be his only salvation.

 

_________________________ _________________________

 

It was not until much later that Darcy was able to appreciate how astutely Elizabeth had dealt with the situation. He would even come to wonder if she realized it herself at the time, for he would have much cause to reflect on the specific night of the Meryton Assembly time and again from that point on.

Not only had she revealed her knowledge of his private comment referencing her _tolerability_ , but she had also displayed, on the surface, near perfect indifference as to his opinion of her. Despite his resulting anger at her impertinence, no one but Bingley would actually understand the significance of her remark, and he was far too besotted with her older sister to notice. Instead she had drawn only his attention to his misconduct in such a way as to make further comment on his part all but impossible. Her obvious wit and quickness of mind took him completely by surprise. 

Though an inauspicious beginning, he would later count it among the most interesting tales of his life.


	4. Or Not To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters so far! Enjoy.

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~

The morning after the assembly saw Mr. Darcy in a far gentler fame of mind than he rightfully expected. He attributed this welcome change to a full night of restful sleep rather than the peculiar absence of a certain nighttime tableau. 

The previous day had been quite emotionally exhaustive, after all.

Whatever the reason, he felt a certain lightness of being that had been absent for some time. He rose at his usual hour to heavy skies that promised rain before the day’s end. Though he planned to ride, he was surprised to find that the foreboding weather did little in the way of dimming his brightened mien.

First to the breakfast room, Darcy selected his meal with care and sipped his coffee slowly, anxious that nothing intrude too abruptly upon his unusual tranquility. That he’d been waiting for such a moment to reflect upon the previous evening was quite conveniently forgotten. It was as though his body was finally returned to full health after a long convalescence. Even the clarity of his mind felt sharper, more orderly and calm. The food tasted somehow fuller, more potent to his palette.

If Darcy chose not to inspect the true impetus for this marked change, one must forgive him at this juncture. In any case, he hardly would have found the answer to his liking.

He passed a pleasant half hour in solitude and had just begun reading the paper when Bingley entered, looking slightly harried. For a moment, he didn’t acknowledge Darcy’s presence. It felt much more natural than had the previous morning when their roles had been rather backward.

“Ah…Good morning, Darcy,” he muttered, pulling at his already crumpled cravat. “It looks like rain.” Darcy hummed his acknowledgement, following Bingley with his eyes as the younger man paced next to the table for a moment. Finally, he took up a plate and filled it at random with quick, agitated movements.

Darcy waited.

After some more pacing, Bingley situated himself across the table and set about cutting a piece of ham into ridiculously small bites. Darcy raised his brows slightly in amusement before resuming his perusal of the paper. Bingley’s unwitting display belied a great under-current of anxiety about which Darcy expected he would soon speak. He doubted whether Charles knew how clearly matters weighing on his mind were typically conveyed in the tension of his person. He was as an eager little boy might be, waiting to ask permission for something he dearly wanted but expected to be denied.

Similarly, Darcy anticipated the source of worry was a certain golden haired maiden. Bingley appeared very serious in his consideration of this one. 

_Hmm… I really must keep an eye on this._

“Darcy,” he said after a few minutes spent pushing the small bites of food around. “I wonder, would it be unseemly for me to call at Longbourn today? Or perhaps invite Miss Bennet to dine here this evening?” Darcy paused, torn between indulging a possibly harmless flirtation and facilitating a potentially imprudent match.

“Oh, Charles,” a droll voice said from the door, having heard his question. “How soon you forget. I believe you already committed yourself and Mr. Darcy to dine in the village tonight though why you should wish to do so, I * _cannot*_ imagine.” Caroline swung gracefully into the room and perched at the table with a flourish. “And you mustn’t appear too eager.”

“ _Too_ eager?” he repeated, clearly concerned he’d done that very thing.

“What if,” his sister spoke as though to a child, “I invited her here to dine with me? She does seem to be a sweet girl, even if she does smile a bit too much. I should like to know her better.” She blinked innocently at him.

Darcy frowned, thinking it far more likely Caroline desired information rather than companionship, but held his tongue. Bingley still appeared uncertain.

“Do you not think she may find it strange to dine here if I am out?” His brow furrowed.

“Nonsense. She will merely think you wish her to know your dear sister better. It’s perfectly true, is it not? Do not fret so, Dear Brother, all will be well,” she soothed.

Darcy’s frown deepened. At times, it mystified him how Bingley failed to recognize the manipulations of others. He continually expected no less than the best of intentions in everyone he encountered. But Darcy hesitated to interfere in any schemes set forth by Caroline Bingley lest she mistake his interest in the matter as increased interest in herself. She was very good at assuming she could understand the intentions and desires of others.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he sighed faintly, looking to Darcy.

“Caroline is well equipped to entertain Miss Bennet in your stead, Charles,” Darcy said. Caroline lowered her eyes modestly at the small compliment. “We agreed to dine with Colonel Forster some time ago. We cannot break the engagement now for so trivial a reason. I’m sure there will be ample opportunity to meet Miss Bennet again.” Bingley acquiesced, though still appeared crestfallen.

Caroline shot Darcy a look of mute exasperation over her brother’s obvious infatuation. Darcy showed no reaction, but could hardly lament the absence of someone who would naturally remind him of… someone else.

“Very well, Charles. If it will ease your mind, I will tell you that I anticipated your agreement of our plan,” Caroline sighed after a short pause. She snapped her fingers at one of the hovering servants, causing Darcy to blink in surprise. “Have one of the maids bring me the letter on the silver tray in my dressing room,” she ordered brusquely.

As they waited, Bingley began to eat slowly but still seemed troubled by his perception of what Caroline so generously referred to as _their_ plain. Within five minutes, Caroline had in her hand a short missive that she then handed to Bingley for his approval. Propriety forbade a single man from sending private correspondence to a single woman, but indirect means of communication were commonly employed as an acceptable means of circumventing this social restriction.

Bingley’s eyes traveled over the written words and presently, a smile spread slowly across his features and he looked gratefully at his sister. “Oh, thank you, Caroline,” he grinned at last, looking more like himself. “I’m sure this will do nicely.”

Darcy carefully attended his newspaper, wondering again what game Caroline had undertaken in inviting Miss Bennet to Netherfield. After her spoken reflections during the assembly, he was very sure she shared his evaluation of the Bennet family as being too far beneath their level of society for the promotion of any of the daughters as viable matches. Perhaps he had missed some interaction between Caroline and Miss Bennet last night. It was true his attention had been compromised by considerations of … another matter.

With a sigh, he realized the presence of a physical reminder was unnecessary if he ended up dwelling upon the subject without assistance. The morning’s tranquility crumbled and faded to dust. He felt seized with restless energy, the pent up frustration of yesterday coming belatedly to the fore.

“If you will both excuse me, I have some correspondence to attend to,” he stated. With a curt bow, he quit the room.

The turn in the weather meant their tour of Netherfield would likely be delayed again; another day spent inside in idle occupation held little appeal. Nevertheless, he dedicated the morning to several letters and papers from Pemberley that demanded his attention. The socialization that had been required by their arrival to the neighborhood had delayed his responsibilities. As was his habit, he was thorough and meticulous as he wrote instructions and news to various parties. Though Bingley and Caroline eventually joined him in the library where he worked, he spoke to them but little until they all retired for refreshment shortly after noon.

While the silence of his presence was nothing new to his present companions, they could hardly have guessed the growing disquiet of his inner thoughts. Without the employment of business to occupy his mind during the meal, he found himself going over each word spoken by Miss Elizabeth the previous night, trying to determine her motives. 

More than once, he ruminated upon the moment when he heard her laugh and the intense emotion that had overtaken him at the sound. How could her presence affect him so powerfully? He now came to the conclusion that his sleep must have been accompanied by dreams that he simply could not recall once he awoke. Otherwise, there was no other earthly reason why thoughts of _her_ intruded on a perfectly innocuous day yet again.

At this frustration, his earlier restlessness made itself known again. Without a word, he pushed back from the table and stood, motioning quietly to a servant. He gave told the man to have his mount prepared and then announced his intentions to the Bingleys.

“But, sir,” Caroline purred, “Surely you must not ride today. If you were to get caught in a downpour you could catch your death! Perhaps your ride could wait until dryer conditions?”

“I thank you for your concern, Caroline. I don’t intend to stay out long and there are plenty of trees to provide shelter.” 

“Shall I accompany you, Darcy?” Charles roused himself from the absent-minded trance in which he’d lingered periodically throughout the morning.

“No, I thank you,” Darcy answered a bit too quickly, for he was anxious to be alone. “I’ll return in time to accompany you to the village.”

In truth, he needed nothing so simple as a blinding rush through the countryside with only his horse for company. He dearly wished for the familiar rise and fall of Derbyshire’s landscape where his stallion Admiral required little if any guidance so acclimated to the terrain was he. 

If he were riding there, he wouldn’t have to think at all.

Briefly, he returned to his rooms to don more appropriate attire and an oilcloth overcoat in deference to the infinitesimal chance Miss Bingley’s dire prediction came true. Inside of ten minutes, he was entering the stable and was pleased to see Admiral saddled and waiting as per his instruction. As he approached, the horsed whickered softly in recognition.

“How are you, old boy?” Darcy murmured, running his hand down the animal’s soft nose. From his pocket, he drew half an apple and held it out on the flat of his palm. Admiral lipped it delicately and then nudged Darcy’s shoulder in affection.

As he mounted, another distant rumble of thunder came to his ears. The same had been happening all morning and he prayed it would hold off long enough for a decent ride. He feared his mood would be tarnished irrevocably if he were denied this short stretch away from burden and worry. 

Luckily, Admiral was not afraid of storms.

He warmed the horse slowly against the slight chill, though he longed for the mindless sprint of a gallop. It would not do for the Master of Pemberley to get caught in the rain, fall ill, _and_ cause injury to his own horse. Not that any one disaster was really better than the occurrence all three. He considered his horses almost as members of family and Admiral was a particular favorite. He almost never rode any other mount.

When Darcy was but eight years old, his father bought a stallion with an illustrious bloodline from Spain. The horse was said to be the descendent of Andalusian destriers used by conquistadors under the command of Juan Ponce de León, and was to enrich the stock at Pemberley by disseminating amongst several mares, including Darcy’s mother’s favorite horse, Ambrosia. 

As young Darcy watched Ambrosia’s belly grow, his father told him the foal, should it be male, would become his horse. Should it be female, she would be added to the brood stock and Darcy would have his choice of any other colt amongst the other yearlings.

He remembered watching Ambrosia graze delicately in the pasture, dreaming of the adventures on which he and his colt would embark together. On one particular occasion, his father came up beside him, apparently having sought out his company, which was a rarity in itself.

“Look closely,” he father said in hushed tones. “Look very closely at her flank just in front of the hip. Do you see that small movement there? That is the foal moving within her.” It was an uncharacteristically tender moment between them that neither Darcy would never forget.

When Ambrosia finally came to foal, the offspring was female. Darcy was allowed into the barn to bear witness. He watched in terrified awe as Ambrosia paced her stall fretfully before finally laying down in a fresh bed of straw. The colt came out in a rush of fluids, encased in a milky white birth sack. She struggled free from the membrane as her mother roused herself to begin cleaning the tiny thing. Within minutes, the beautiful dappled filly was attempting to stand upon legs so thin and spindly, Darcy worried they would snap like dry kindling. He’d never seen a horse so small. 

When he expressed concern to the head groom, a man called Deems, he was met with an amused chuckle and a patient lesson on what would happen now the horse was born, how it would grow into maturity and grow plenty of strength to carry itself.

Darcy Senior would not allow his son to foster or ride a female horse, however. Nevertheless, Darcy became attached to her and named her Aster and though he was not supposed to care, he kept abreast of her development and loved her dearly.

Aster had died in an accident some ten years ago, but her progeny at Pemberly were still amongst his favorites in temperament and beauty.

Darcy was thirteen by the time the horse he chose to be his own was born, for he’d wanted to wait rather than choose another of the colts the year Aster was born. None of the foals for several years following appealed to him, though they made perfectly acceptable mounts.

No, Darcy wanted a special horse. A horse that he knew was his the moment he saw it. Because of this, Darcy also remembered how his father had grown frustrated with his ‘dithering’ and had to wonder if that was why his father showed no interest in continuing to guide him in this right of passage.

It turned out to be Aster’s first foal that caught his eye. Again, he was allowed into the barn to bear witness, an event for which he would have been present in any case.

As surely as the sun that rose above the horizon the very moment the colt was born, Darcy knew that _this_ was meant to be his horse. The foal was a solid, uninterrupted, silky black color; he stood tall and dignified from the moment he took his first steps.

Darcy’s mother insisted he should be the one to name the foal despite his father’s grumbling that a he was too fanciful and would be inclined to silly or foolish titles. In the end, he reserved the right to change the horse’s name if such frivolity came to pass. Darcy, being at the time harboring a secret desire to sail the high seas, arrived at the name Admiral with the intention that it would honor both his mother, Anne, and Admiral’s dam Aster, in the use of the names’ first letter, and would provide proper dignity once the horse was grown. His father agreed to the name with some surprise. (His father simultaneously tended to underestimate his son of whom he never had anything but the highest expectations, a dissonance Darcy could never quite live up to, let alone wrap his mind around.)

Nearly every day for a month strait, Darcy rushed to the stable first thing in the morning and spent time with the two under Deems’s watchful eye, approaching slowly by increments until Aster trusted him with the foal, which didn’t take long since she already knew him. He would talk to Admiral for hours about whatever came to mind. Gradually, he began teaching Admiral to follow on a rope lead and get used to the weight of a saddle upon his back. When the horse was old enough, he and Deems worked to break him, which also took very little time. Admiral seemed born for his lot in life and was never anything but loyal, if occasionally prone to high sprits.

Just before the death of his mother, Darcy was well on his way to becoming an accomplished rider and rarely rode any horse but Admiral, who would grow to stand a full sixteen hands. (This was fortunate, since Darcy at thirteen was clearly bound to achieve greater stature than most men once he was of age.)

Eventually, Admiral came to mean much more to Darcy than the usual attachment of a possession or even a pet. Admiral represented the last meaningful gift his father would ever give him for after the death of his wife, little pleased him except for the occasional obsequious company of George Wickham. While he knew the elder Darcy loved him, the expression of that emotion was rarely undertaken before Lady Anne passed, and never afterward until his own death. Darcy favored his father in looks but was far more in temperament like his mother, an unfortunate happenstance that failed to promote the bridging of the cleft that came between father and son.

Admiral and Aster were the only living creatures to behold the tears the young man shed the day his mother died and Admiral alone when some years later, the elder Darcy passed away.

By the time Darcy had ridden a reasonable distance from the house, he was in an open expanse of field that ran alongside the road to the village. He urged Admiral into a canter, then a full run until they approached a fence with a broken top rail they cleared easily. Darcy lost track of time, focusing only on the movement of the horse beneath him and the possible perils of the ground in front of them. 

They came to a small stream that cut across the road and flowed into a small lake. At their approach, a flock of geese were startled from its surface and took flight. Darcy pulled up, easing the pace down to a walk, dismounting to give the horse a chance to water before their return. The rumbles of thunder had increased in their frequency.

He rolled up the sleeves of his overcoat and crouched at the edge, dipping his hands in the cool water. As he splashed a handful over his face and neck, he was halted by the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone. 

Across the water came the sound of a feminine voice humming a simple tune. He half rose, expecting to see a housemaid gathering herbs or rushes along the bank. Though normally not one for covert observation, he espied a young woman in a dark gray-blue dress trailing her hand along the wide trunk of a tree as she sang. He recognized the melody from a piece of music played for the previous night’s entertainment. Her hands were slender and long fingered, tracing lightly over the textured bark as though to memorize its surface. The pale stretch of her neck above the plain gown arched elegantly upward, her hair bound in an equally uncomplicated style. As he watched, she tipped her head back, looking through the branches to the top of the tree. Then, with a deep sigh of contentment, she resumed her song and turned in his direction.

It was her. Elizabeth—that is, Miss Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet— _her_.

Abruptly, Darcy bit back an oath and hurriedly resumed his crouch behind the reeds. As he did, he overbalanced precariously on the balls of his feet and nearly fell forward into the water. Through the reed’s slender stalks, he saw she didn’t seem to have detected his presence. She continued humming, and thankfully, resumed her circling of the tree. When she reached the far side, he moved swiftly, concealing himself behind the tree nearest him. Admiral, surprised by this movement and apparently possessing a sense of irony his master did not, took a few steps toward him, stepping upon a dry twig that cracked loudly in the process.

Darcy glared at him, fully aware of the ridiculous position he now occupied, hiding from a mere girl he had no reason to fear.

The humming stopped and for a moment there was silence. Obviously, Admiral’s misstep had drawn her attention.

“Is someone there?” She paused. “Lydia? Kitty? I’ve told you before, it is not amusing to sneak up on people! …Hmm.” Her footsteps stopped. Apparently, she couldn’t see Admiral from where she stood and thought her sisters were playing a trick on her. He dared not breathe with the relief he felt. Of course Admiral, completely unaware of any misdeed, resumed grazing quietly nearby.

Darcy began frantically considering any justification that might allow him to retain some dignity should she discover him. Really, he prayed that something, * _anything*_ would prevent her from discovering him at all. Yet, he refused to be caught totally unawares and quickly moved from behind the tree to kneel near a shrubbery whose branches were spaced enough to see through.

As he watched, she made a small sound of dismissal and leaned back against the tree, having decided she was, indeed, alone. Idly, she reached up among the low hanging branches and plucked loose a large leaf, which she then twirled between her fingers. Suddenly, she smiled and spoke, affecting an unnaturally deep tone.

“Perfectly tolerable,” she intoned. “But not handsome enough to tempt me.” 

His eyes widened. She was thinking of him! Granted, she was thinking of him with mocking amusement, but thinking of him even so. He felt the shock through his entire body.

She continued twirling the leaf, watching it intently. Then, abruptly, a wide smile broke out on her face; she laughed gaily and dropped the leaf into the water. Just as abruptly, the shock he’d been feeling turned into a strong sense of what he would later identify as hurt.

Suddenly, the light seemed to brighten, causing them both to look skyward as the sun broke through a gap in the clouds. A visible shaft of light pierced the gloom, filling the glade surrounding Elizabeth with a gentle heat. With another deep sigh, she wrapped her arms around herself, tilted her head back again, and closed her eyes to take in the warmth.

Despite his earlier offense, he couldn’t have guessed how long he was lost to the intoxication of witnessing her obvious joy in the simple comfort of a ray of sunshine.

“Lizzie!” The distant call jarred them both from the reverie. “Lizzie, where are you?” Darcy blinked, recognizing the strident tones of Mrs. Bennet. 

“Coming, Mamá!”

With an affectionate roll of her eyes, Elizabeth gathered her skirts and began to run along the bank of the lake in the opposite direction. Quite unintentionally, Darcy spied a glimpse of her bare leg above the top of her boots that stirred improper warmth in his blood.

As she passed from his view, Darcy stood. Through the trees, he could just make out the shape of a structure he hadn’t seen before in the distance. * _So this is Longbourn*_ , he thought wryly. He’d ridden farther than he intended.

Finally breathing easier, he took Admiral’s reins but was unable to consider returning to Netherfield for several minutes. Still greatly disturbed by his starkly dissimilar reactions to Elizabeth, he lingered by the lake for some time, trying to convince himself he had no investment in her whatsoever.

 

_________________________ _________________________

 

“Mr. Darcy,” a commanding voice called from across the table. His head came up sharply. “Am I given to understand you are related to Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Darcy took a sip of wine to cover his inattentiveness.

“Yes, he is a first cousin on my mother’s side,” he managed after a moment. The sudden interest took him by surprise; he resorted to that which was most likely to impress without thinking. “He is the second son of the Earl of Matlock who is my late mother’s brother.” 

“I say, the second son of an earl, indeed… Do you know him well?” Colonel Forster looked at him expectantly.

“Very well. We played often together as boys and I meet him frequently in matters of business and family when his schedule allows it,” Darcy said. He was further surprised at the level of the Colonel’s inquiry and hoped he would stop there. The fact that some of his dealing with Fitzwilliam included their joint guardianship of Georgiana was not something he shared readily and he knew little of Fitzwilliam’s responsibilities when it came to his military service.

“Capital young man, Fitzwilliam,” Forster intoned pedantically. “Yes—I believe I met him briefly in London during a recent training summit. Very, very competent in his work, indeed.”

“I thank you, I will pass along the compliment,” Darcy said mildly. With that, Forster’s attention fell to the man at Darcy’s right, sparing him from further inane questioning. Oddly enough, this was nearly the extent to which Darcy had been required to speak so far that evening.

Despite the absence of the actual militia, which would in fact arrive the next day, Colonel Forster had taken up residence in Meryton with several of his higher-ranking officers. Determined to get a sense of the neighboring custom and community, he set up something of an informal gentlemen’s club in the public meetinghouse and invited members of the local gentry to dine with him. The rest of the men were slated to arrive in state the next morning and would march into town from the newly constructed barracks in a large parade encompassing the whole village.

After his return to Netherfield, Darcy had barely had time to make himself presentable before he and Charles boarded the carriage for the trip into town. Bingley, still caught up in his thoughts of Miss Bennet, spoke barely a word during the trip, an absence that bothered Darcy not a whit as he too had a Bennet family member to think on, though with distinctly different sentiments involved.

He’d allowed Admiral to return to Netherfield at a sedate pace that afternoon, as he was very much lost in thought. They arrived back just before the skies finally opened up. He once again found his thoughts and emotions in disarray and was no closer to enjoying the sensation than he’d been at the assembly. In the wake of his secret observation of Elizabeth, he became increasingly galled and confused by her indifference to him. For the first time he could recall, he felt the lack of that regard usually paid to one of his elevation. What could induce a girl whose circumstances were so lowered to turn her nose up at a single man of his affluence?

Again, he felt the absurdity of his position, that he should be insulted by her lack of attention when he’d never felt any injury in the past, especially when it came to women.

That she also scoffed at his behavior was another mark against her in his books. Most people had the good grace to at least be conscious, if not offended by his immense self-possession and sense of superiority. _But not Elizabeth_ , he thought darkly. _She apparently feels secure enough in her independence that she need not follow society’s mandates for proper behavior. She’s probably as bad as the rest of her family._

On that score he had to check himself, however. Except in a moment of private reflection she could not know he witnessed, she hadn’t yet shown any real lack of propriety he felt bound to criticize. If anything, she displayed a greater understanding than her own mother and younger sisters, which was to be commended. 

Elizabeth and Jane at least, seemed to have some good judgment.

He continued contemplating his dilemma up until the time that he and Bingley arrived in Meryton. He did his best to be somewhat sociable with the other gentlemen, finding that several of the officers hailed from regions near Derbyshire he was familiar with. Their conversation, though less sophisticated than he was used to, couldn’t be described as poor. As the evening wore on, however, he found their company became somewhat tedious. Often, he found his mind straying again to subjects he would rather avoid.

After dinner, he joined the rest in several games of billiards and then cards. Though Bingley was amiable as always, Darcy noticed a delay in his replies and a distant look in his eye on occasion that suggested his mind too strayed elsewhere. By the end of the night, they both felt relieved to be arriving back at Netherfield and hence to retire to their respective rooms.

As the carriage pulled up in the drive, it soon became clear that their relief was to be short lived. The steward, Mr. Myles, came out to meet them, an unusual occurrence to be sure. As Bingley had yet to decide whether he would fill out the house staff with a regular butler, Mr. Myles was kindly fulfilling both rolls for the time being.

_What is it now?_ Darcy wondered. His life, it seemed, was doomed to a course of one conflict after another of late.

Once they had gained their footing, Mr. Myles bowed and gave them reason to understand that during the heavy rain of the afternoon, Miss Bennet had journeyed to Netherfield on horseback. She had become so saturated and chilled that almost directly after her arrival, she took ill with a fierce cold and had to be ensconced in one of the guest rooms for the night.

“Oh, no!” Bingley exclaimed. “Taken ill? Oh dear, I shall never forgive myself. I ought to have sent the carriage to collect her.” 

In the drawing room, Bingley paced heavily, as stormy an expression on his face as any Darcy had ever seen. He wondered aloud several times if he ought to check on Miss Bennet personally, a plan Darcy heartily vetoed as it would be improper for a gentlemen to visit her rooms with only a maid as chaperone, given the hour. Bingley acquiesced, but couldn’t settle himself. He alternately walked the length of the room, stood at the fireplace watching the flames pensively, and sat down only to jump up and resume his pattern over and over.

“I cannot imagine what possessed her mother, sending her out in such weather,” Darcy grumbled after several rotations of this. Bingley nodded absently but made no reply, finally deciding to give strict instructions to the staff as to how to attend to Miss Bennet’s comfort and to wake him immediately if she needed something during the night.

More troublesome still, was the incongruent behavior of Caroline, who had already retired before informing her brother of these events. It seemed her earlier eagerness to entertain Miss Bennet on behalf of her brother had faded after being forced to play hostess for longer than a few hours.


	5. Nothing Can Come

The instant Darcy exited his rooms the next morning, he found Bingley pacing the hallway anxiously.

“Darcy, there you are,” he mumbled by way of greeting. “I wonder—that is, I’ve been trying to decide if… Well, do you think I ought to have a doctor tend to Miss Bennet?”

Darcy stared at him, worried for his friend’s sanity. 

Bingley had all the appearance of a man possessed. His hair was even untidier than usual and he had yet to dress properly; he wore only a shirt, breeches and boots. His eyes were overly bright from lack of sleep and his hands clenched together until the knuckles turned white.

“Charles, how long have you been awake? Have you eaten?” he asked suspiciously as the younger man resumed wringing his hands.

“Hmm? Oh… Yes, I’ll... worry about that later. Right now, I’m concerned for Miss Bennet. Her maid tells me she’s little improved this morning, though she was able to take some tea and bread. Mrs. Nichols tells me there’s a physician in Meryton, a man called Green, who could likely see her today if I get word to him now…” He trailed off as a door down the hallway opened and a young maid approached them.

“Excuse me, um…. I-if you please, sir,” the girl stuttered with a timid curtsey. She darted surreptitious glances at Darcy, clearly intimidated. He raised an eyebrow at her timidity. “Th-the lady, Miss Bennet… She asks if she could please trouble you to get this note to her family, sir.” She held a folded piece of paper in a trembling hand.

“Oh, yes… Yes, certainly. Right away… Thank you, Susan.” Bingley, thrilled at finally being allowed to help, took the letter gingerly as though it was apt to vanish in a puff of Jane-scented smoke. With a barely discernible ‘excuse me’, he left Darcy staring after him, wondering if he meant to deliver the letter to Longbourn himself on foot in his current state.

Quite honestly, Darcy couldn’t understand behaving so foolishly for the sake of a woman, particularly not one of Miss Bennet’s caliber. True, her beauty could not be denied, but Bingley’s bumbling hardly seemed warranted. She had a trifling cold but was hardly at death’s door. Rather than the daughter of a country gentleman, Bingley acted as though the health of a Duchess hung in the balance. (Darcy’s own ridiculous antics employed in hiding behind foliage to avoid Elizabeth had, at present, slipped his mind.)

Nearly two hours later, Bingley was still absent from the breakfast room. Darcy took advantage of the extra space, spreading his newspaper out on the table, barely listening to a comment from Miss Bingley over a letter she was reading. (Something to do with someone redecorating a ballroom in some manner, though why she believed Darcy deigned to keep current on such matters remained a mystery.) The door opened, emitting Mr. Myles; Darcy spared him but a glance before continuing to read an article about more economic troubles in France.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he announced with a bow. The name, of course, caught his attention and Darcy finally looked up, shock coursing through him. Somehow, the possibility of her coming here had not occurred to him. That she and Jane were close he had surmised but had obviously underestimated the strength of their bond. Now she was here, mostly likely to accept the inherent task of caring for her sister. * _Her*_. Elizabeth. Here. Here at Netherfield and about to walk in. 

_Oh, no_ …

He was completely unprepared to face her and she was here.

Before he could even begin bringing his thoughts in order, Elizabeth entered the room and he forgot to breathe. Her eyes were slightly wary as she walked slowly to the center of the wall between the room’s two large columns. His mouth went dry as he took her in. 

The length of her hair was mostly unbound. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman with her hair down other than his sister. Only the crown and sides of her hair were gathered back. The rest hung soft and wavy, well below the shoulders of an old, dark overcoat. 

Her hair was nearly the same rich brown as her eyes, and he knew instinctively that, were he to bury his nose in it, he would smell fresh air and flowers. Rosy color bloomed delicately across her cheeks as a result of the exercise giving her skin an aching luminescence. She wore a subtle blue green dress that reminded him of morning fog. She looked like a child of nature itself, born of a beautifully fragile sunrise and the dusk of evening. He swallowed hard, noticing small white lace scalloping along the neckline of her dress and had a sudden urge to run his finger across the texture of it before taking in the supple skin beneath.

All this was followed by the immediate realization that he ought to stand and bow in acknowledgement of the introduction. As he did, his chair scuffed loudly on the floor and his boots clicked together. He resisted the impulse to wince at his blunder for it drew the attention of both ladies.

“Good Lord, Miss Elizabeth, did you walk here?” Carole inquired in a superior tone, clearly as shocked as he for what she would perceive as the impropriety of Elizabeth’s appearance.

“I did,” Elizabeth stated unashamedly. She waited, looking at the two of them expectantly. “I’m so sorry, how is my sister?”

“She’s upstairs.” Darcy answered quickly, feeling an inexplicable need for her to be away from him. Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, though whether she reacted because he spoke or the manner of his speech, he could not know.

“Thank you.” She paused again as though expecting further intelligence, then gave a curtsey and left.

“My goodness, did you see her hem? Six-inches deep in mud! She looked positively medieval,” Caroline drawled in contempt.

Darcy, on the other hand, could offer no such concise opinion on what transpired before them. That he was torn between a craving to lap at the cream of her skin like a cat and disgust at the same desire was hardly information to be shared with anyone, least of all Miss Bingley. Instead, he stood blinking in confusion, foremost in his mind the notion that he had missed the mark indeed, referring to Elizabeth as only * _tolerable*_.

“—wouldn’t want your sister traipsing about the countryside on such an errand, I’m sure.” Caroline, unaware of his agitation, continued her diatribe.

“No. Certainly not,” he agreed quietly. _Of course, Georgiana has no sisters and is only sixteen_ , he reflected absently. If she had an ill sister to care for, he imagined she would undertake the errand most determinedly. _And I would walk any distance in her place for much less_.

“Why, it must be at least three miles from here to any other house. What could she have been thinking? She wasn’t fit to be seen, with her hair windblown and unkempt, never mind the mud.” Caroline shook her head and returned to her letter, thereby ending her commentary on the matter. Darcy resumed his seat, giving her a puzzled glance.

“I imagine she was thinking of her sister,” Darcy said with alacrity. “Her concern does her credit.” Caroline was incredulous, thoroughly taken aback, and could only gape at him; fortunately, she chose not to question his abrupt defense of their new guest, though the look on her face suggested she found grave error in his reasoning. (Nothing, it seemed, would draw Caroline out of doors for an extended period of time and most definitely not on foot across three miles, not even the health of a loved one. Unless, perhaps, that loved one was gravely ill, very rich, and in need of an heir.)

Darcy made a show of returning to his paper, making his face blank and ignoring Caroline’s piercing looks. He forced himself to behave as though nothing was amiss, that his mind and body weren’t churning with conflicting thoughts and urges. 

As he stared at the printed words before him, images formed rapidly before his eyes, imprinting themselves on the paper as though he looked through a window into one of his dreams. 

He saw himself approaching Elizabeth, talking her shoulders in his hands and kissing her until she trembled. Beginning slowly so as not to scare her, he would then deepen the kiss to delve the depths of her mouth with his tongue. She would moan at the unexpected sensation, participating hesitantly at first until she clung to him willingly, her elegant hands tangling in his hair and around his neck. When she was weak in his arms, he would finally, finally taste her skin, beginning with her exquisite neck and ending with the smooth expanse of her chest just above the scalloped lace. He would run his hands through her hair and dip his fingers below the lace, teasing her breast until she begged him to take her…

His head began to swim with disorientation and he swallowed the sudden pooling of saliva in his mouth. The dizziness passed as soon as he realized he’d been holding his breath. 

_I really must see a physician_ , he though frantically. _Any physician… sooner rather than later_. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he forced his mind back to the piece on France.

At length, Bingley entered the room, breaking the spell that seemed to have gripped him. Darcy breathed slowly, trying to acknowledge his friend’s approach without betraying his state. For his part, Bingley looked far more cheerful than he had earlier that morning. 

“Thank goodness for Miss Elizabeth,” he said with relief. “Miss Bennet already seems in better spirits and the doctor says she will recover nicely. How fortunate that Longbourn is so close.” He sat with a satisfied sigh and finally began partaking of the breakfast fare that was long past cold. Bingley didn’t seem to mind, as he had at last been allowed to see Miss Bennet with her sister as chaperone.

“How fortunate too that Miss Elizabeth possesses such an… independent nature,” Caroline added, lifting a teacup to hide a duplicitous smile.

“Yes,” Bingley agreed firmly, conscious of her not so cleverly hidden cut. “Fortunate indeed. I think her obvious concern for her sister is delightful. It shows great strength of character and a strong familial sense. Don’t you agree, Darcy?”

Darcy considered his response, conscious that Bingley’s sister watched him closely. “I suppose it does, though she could have just as easily come by carriage. For that matter, Miss Bennet could have, as well.” Caroline made a noise of agreement, tacitly pleased with his dismissal of the Bennet sisters’ methods of travel.

“True, but from what I understand from Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth enjoys walking a great deal and does so nearly everyday when the weather is fine. And apparently sometimes when it is not. I confess to no great surprise that she walked here. She and her sister are very close, I believe,“ Bingley explained while filling his plate. By this time, he was properly dressed and far more at ease. “And I, for one, was grateful to see her.” 

Before either party could reply, Mr. Myles returned, this time bearing several letters on a silver tray.

“One for Mr. Darcy and two for you, sir,” he addressed Bingley directly.

“Here you are, Darcy—from Georgiana I think.” Bingley handed him the parchment sealed with the Darcy crest in colored wax.

He took it up eagerly, feeling relief on two fronts; first for brief deliverance from the usual anxiety he felt being away from his sister and the second for another diversion from thoughts of Elizabeth. It seemed well nigh impossible for him to find enough distraction lately and with the object of his distress in residence, he could forget about the maintenance of his peace of mind.

Excusing himself, he took the letter outside with him in the direction of Netherfield’s flower garden. As he walked, he read of Georgiana’s delight in a new piece of music and her satisfaction in the progress of a needlepoint piece she’d worked on for some time. She spoke of her happiness of being in London to see the trees burn with autumn color and long walks in the park with her companion, Mrs. Annesley. During these walks, she often stopped to sketch the ducks and swans in the lily ponds, reveling in sight of spring babies losing their fuzz to turn into the sleek adults of the fall. He smiled, knowing full well that his sister’s love of animals also encompassed the tadpoles, frogs, dragonflies and fish of the ponds themselves.

Though she had clearly moved beyond childhood lessons, she still studied with a tutor for French and Italian, and excelled in drawing and music. He was conscious that his little sister as growing to become a fine young woman, and the knowledge gave him both grief and joy. Grief that she moved passed the innocence of the young and joy for the brightness of her future.

Despite the difference in their ages, Darcy and his sister had always been close. Though the gap between them meant they would forever be in different phases in life, there was a connection between them that never faltered. He would never truly supplant his father’s position for her, though he knew the relationship was more in that vein than that of brother and sister. Their bond was one forged in the loss of their parents even though the experience had different repercussions for each. Georgiana had no chance to know their mother, and lost their father when she was still very young. Darcy was her most trusted confidant and friend, as well as guide and steward of her future. She shared her life with him readily, as he did with her, and never sought to keep him from knowing her most treasured secrets.

Except once. 

Only once had circumstances unforeseen come between them in such a way that their bond was sorely tested. Only once had Georgiana conspired with another to keep something from him. Only once had he nearly lost her, but once was one time too many.

Love, he knew, could make fools of otherwise sensible men and women. Called the great equalizer, love was humbling and at the same time prideful, a source of both bliss and darkest sadness. From a young age, he understood there were different types of love from what he felt for his sister to what he knew of his father’s love for both of them; rarely spoken of and sorely taken for granted, but certain just the same. His father’s love for their mother was of another type, one that had developed over years of marriage but hadn’t been present in more than a minor sense of fondness at their wedding.

He came to know that men sought relief from the desires of physical love in the women of certain districts of London who sold their affection and favors for a price. From an early age, he was given to understand this kind of love was of a temporary and purely carnal variety, and should be sought only as a means of control over one’s baser desires. Sometimes the same men also kept mistresses after they married because it was unbefitting for wives to inspire that kind of passion in them.

But there was yet another kind of love with which he had little experience. It was the kind usually seen in the men who did not keep mistresses, but married the woman who invoked their passion. These men looked at their wives with such slavering devotion that others would titter behind their hands, calling them ‘hen pecked’. This kind of love he little understood and couldn’t help but doubt. Why would anyone put himself so completely under another’s power? It was illogical at best and humiliating at worst.

Nothing would have made him believe in it’s true senselessness until his sister fell under the charm of George Wickham, as so many had before her.

Before his fall from grace, Georgiana and Wickham shared a connection much like hers with Darcy. Because Wickham was practically raised alongside them, she saw him as a brother figure and someone she respected and loved in that way. He remembered George devoting much time to entertaining her and both of them undertaking the task of making her laugh as often as possible. She was an adorable child and they would sometimes play in the nursery with her until they the vanity of adolescence made them seek more adult pursuits.

Though she was not especially in the habit of losing herself to flights of fancy like other girls her age, Georgiana was just as susceptible to the allure of flattery. And being far more familiar with her personality than other men, she was that much more susceptible to Wickham. 

In the recounting of the tale of what transpired before Darcy arrived in Ramsgate, she told him tearfully that Wickham plied her with gifts and claimed to have seen her with new eyes, speaking of her beauty and grace. As it had been some years since Wickham left Pemberley, and he said he now looked upon her as a woman instead of a child and made her feel giddy with his attentions. She had let him kiss her hand as a lover and wanted to believe his love was genuine. 

Caught up in the romance of it all, she agreed to elope with him and allowed him to persuade her that her brother would forgive their hurry after he saw the great love between them. The evening before they were to journey to Scotland with her current companion Mrs. Younge, Wickham came to her and began asking about the inheritance left to her by the elder Darcy, a sum of $30,000 pounds. Confused, but trusting him implicitly, Georgiana haltingly told him of the terms under which she would come into the money upon her twenty-fifth birthday or in the event of her marriage, whichever came first. She alluded to a strict stipulation insisted upon by her father, a condition that meant the fortune was to remain under her and Darcy’s control no matter who else came into the family. Wickham drew her back to this point and made her reiterate it several times.

Upon getting his clarification, Wickham became very still and quiet with his back turned to her. Had she been able to see his face, she would have been frightened by the dark rage that could be seen on it then. For Wickham knew what Georgiana did not. The falling out that had occurred between Darcy and he upon his refusal of the living left to him at Kympton (and subsequent demand of more funds) meant that Darcy would never trust him again, even if he believed Georgiana loved him. Darcy might allow for their sham of a marriage to continue if he believed Georgiana to be happy, but he would never allow Wickham to access the fortune at will. 

And the fortune was his true purpose.

It was a complication Wickham hadn’t been expecting; he couldn’t immediately determine how to make it work in his favor. And so, with a syrupy smile, he turned back to Georgiana and took his leave for the night, lingering over the tender goodbye with promises he would see her in the morning.

But morning came and George Wickham never returned. 

Darcy had finished some business in London early and decided to surprise Georgiana in Ramsgate. Of course, he was under the impression that while she was there with Mrs. Younge, her company included _only_ Mrs. Younge. When his carriage arrived, he was shocked to find Georgiana more distraught than he had ever seen her. For over an hour, he pleaded with her to reveal the source of her distress, even appealing to Mrs. Younge, who feigned ignorance. Finally, after many reassurances that he would not be angry, Georgiana let loose the entire story up to and including the conversation about the money that she now feared must have been the turning point in Wickham’s courtship.

Despite his promise, he was furious upon hearing of the planned elopement, but made himself take her into his arms, letting her cry out her misfortune until she fell asleep. Though he was hurt by her inability to trust him, the brunt of his anger was for Wickham.

Still unaware of Mrs. Younge’s complicity in this wretched turn of events, he left her with his sister to seek out the inn where Georgiana said Wickham had been staying. He found the man’s room emptied of all belongings, (including some not previously in his possession) leaving no trace of his presence. The innkeeper said he’d been awaiting the earliest morning coach since shortly after midnight in the inn’s public room, and had become more and more drunk as the night progressed. Then he began rambling about how he’d convinced a young lady of wealth to fall in love with him but had been misled by her caretaker into believing he would come into money if he married her. He boasted about the luck of his escape from being married to such a fool. (He had also told the innkeeper his bill had already been paid in full through the man’s assistant and to confirm this in the morning. By the time the innkeeper realized this was a falsehood, Wickham was long gone.)

And thus, Darcy returned to his sister as fast as possible, having correctly surmised that Wickham had been referring to Mrs. Younge.

Though the woman first tried to deny her knowledge of Wickham’s true intent and her role in the snaring of Georgiana’s heart, the force of Darcy’s fury impressed upon her the lengths to which he would go in getting the truth. Even after she admitted she was guilty, Darcy dismissed her without sympathy, berated her for having the audacity to lie to him, and made it clear he would make further employment amongst the gentry very difficult for her to find. He then loaded his exhausted sister into their private carriage and returned to Pemberley.

Later that year, he found Mrs. Annesley, a widow native to Lambton, to take up the position of Georgiana’s companion. She was a sensible older woman who was already fond of Georgiana having met her several times in the village when she was a child. Her own children were grown and settled away from her and she was eager to take the recovering girl under her wing and nurture her back to confidence and self-forgiveness.

Georgiana’s spirit was injured but not broken. Within a few months, Darcy was pleased to see a great resilience in her he feared would not be possible after the depth of her disappointment. Because she was still young enough to enjoy life and just old enough to appreciate that enjoyment, she soon returned to her former self, though perhaps more cautious and slightly more serious than before.

Darcy, too, forgave her imprudence knowing full well that Wickham was capable of making even the most skeptical believe he was good and entirely harmless. After all, Wickham had even been able to convince Darcy’s ever cautious and propriety minded father that he intended to make the church his life. Once Wickham’s true nature was revealed, Darcy couldn’t imagine someone less suited to the role of making sermons and providing moral guidance; debauchery and making merry were far more his speed. 

Since Ramsgate, however, Darcy found he disliked being away from Georgiana and hadn’t been very far from her for very long until Bingley’s invitation to Netherfield. Though he trusted Mrs. Annesley, having vetted her far more thoroughly than Mrs. Younge, he couldn’t shake the sense that he could have prevented the entire calamity to begin with. Georgiana herself had convinced him that it would be best for him to go because he simply could not be always at her side. He remembered telling her it was his job to take care of her rather than she taking care of him. She had only smiled in a way that reminded him of their mother and told him to enjoy himself and not worry so much.

As such, it was with pride and a sense of nostalgia that he read her cheerful and well-written letter through a second time as he meandered the garden. As he reached the closing again, he smiled fondly and sat at one of the stone benches that were spaced throughout the hedges. The bench he chose, though he did so at random, happened to face the back of the house. He rested for a moment, piecing together in his mind the reply he would make to his sister the moment he had a chance to write. He gazed vaguely at the back face of the structure, tracing the line of the roof with his eyes until a small movement in one of the windows drew his eye.

It was Elizabeth.

She looked out over the distant landscape far behind him, unaware for the moment that his eyes were on her. He felt a forbidden thrill at once again observing her without her knowledge. He realized her hair was completely unbound now and the dark coat was gone. She looked just as ravishing as before and he felt a long, liquid pull in his stomach at the sight. He knew he should look away, pretend to read the letter again— do something, anything but continue to watch her like a lecher. But he could not tear his eyes away. She smiled faintly and began deftly braiding her hair, twisting it up into a neat bun. As he watched, she turned to say something to someone within he couldn’t see, most likely her sister. As she turned back to the glass, her arms still raised, their eyes met and held.

He inhaled sharply but made no move to pretend he did not see her. Unthinkingly, he raised his chin with a narrowed, defensive gaze; the effect of this was an unintentionally cold glare across the distance that separated them. She displayed little surprise other than the slow lowering of her hands. Her head tipped slightly to the side as though considering him until, after what felt like an age, she turned away and walked out of his view. When she was gone, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

He got up irritably, pacing the same paths he had earlier traced in contentment, his mind full of her impertinence. At the very least, she should have somehow acknowledged his presence. Even a nod would do. (Caught up in the moment, the fact that he had not exactly acknowledged her slipped his mind.) She might have even been shocked or flattered that he looked at her. Instead, she behaved as though his attention was nothing to her, that he was too insignificant to be noticed. _What nerve she has_ , he grumbled to himself. _Most women would be pleased to have my gaze land on them. Why not Elizabeth? Why does she insist on being completely unpredictable?_

_Well, you did insult her_.

The practical, honest voice was back again and he grimaced at its discernment. She must realize his words were not meant for her ears but an idle remark made in ill temper. Apparently, she could forgive her mother for calling her friend plain but not a man she’d just met. At least he had used the word _tolerable_ rather than _ugly_ or _repulsive_. Did she not know herself to be beautiful? Regardless of the sentiment expressed, he couldn’t credit her need to behave as though he had wrong her so seriously.

Perhaps she was merely playing coy. Perhaps she believed if she acted as though she cared not for his opinion, he would eventually flatter her outrageously and beg her forgiveness before falling helplessly in love with her. Perhaps it was really a trap the likes of which he hadn’t yet learned to expect.

_Oh, stop,_ he told himself harshly. _For goodness sake, stop this nonsense! She is nothing but another girl looking to marry well. You have nothing to fear from her. You are the Master of Pemberley and she is nothing to you._ He repeated this quietly several times until he began to feel more like himself and less like he was going mad. Reestablishing his resolve to pay as little attention to her as possible, he made one more circuit of the garden before making his way back inside.

 

_________________________ _________________________

 

Later that afternoon, he sought out Joseph and asked him to ready his writing supplies and bring them to the drawing room. As he waited there, he took up an aged copy of a book of poetry by William Blake he had left on the table and turned to the marked page. He lost himself in the rhythmic verse allowing it to soothe his system, which had been in riotous turmoil throughout the day. But soon his concentration was broken.

With a frustrated sigh, he got up again and paced, wondering what was taking Joseph so long. After gazing out the window for some minutes in an attempt to clear his head, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Joseph carried the writing podium to the table facing the window. “My apologies for the delay, sir. Mr. Bingley requested my assistance in bringing in a trunk for Miss Bennet. It seems Mr. Bingley has invited both Miss Bennet and her sister to stay until she is better…” Joseph realized he was rambling and dropped off the end of his sentence. His face flushed scarlet, and Darcy came to the suspicion that the pretty Miss Bennets had charmed the man. He had most likely offered his help rather than being enlisted.

With a roll of his eyes, he dismissed Joseph and took up his quill. No sooner had he scratched out a salutation, he heard more footsteps approaching, this time the soft patter of a lady’s slippers. Though he knew it was likely not Elizabeth, he couldn’t help the tensing of his body in anticipation. He turned his head toward the door, only to see that it was Caroline who entered the room, looking sullen and put out.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy.” Her face underwent a drastic change, affecting the pleasant but aloof mask of superiority she usually wore. “How timely. I should warn you, sir, my brother is on his way here with Miss Elizabeth. You know, I assume, that he’s invited them both to stay? Apparently, Miss Bennet has fallen asleep and rather than leaving her sister to read in silence, Charles invited Miss Elizabeth to join us with her book. So prepare yourself, my friend. I fear we are about to experience some of the country manners my brother so adores.”

Darcy remained outwardly indifferent to this news, beginning his letter with a few comments about the weather and other matters that took little concentration. He was conscious of finally being afforded the opportunity to fortify himself before being in her presence again. He took a moment to trim the quill to his liking, repeating the earlier litany of reasons he need not pay her any mind.

“And what is it you do so secretly, sir?”

“It is no secret, Caroline. I am writing to my sister.”

“Ah… Dear Georgiana. Such a lovely girl and so accomplished. Be sure to tell her my brother and I would be delighted to meet her again. Is she grown much since the spring? Is she as tall as me?”

“She has grown, but not quite so tall. She is rather about as tall as Miss Elizabeth, I think.” Caroline blinked at him, the smile freezing on her face. She cleared her throat deliberately, and turned toward the window, seemingly displeased with his comparison.

He had just completed a paragraph in which he complimented Georgiana’s previous communication, keeping it open beside him to refer directly to different passages. He moved on to make a feeble allusion to Caroline’s desire to see her, leaving it open for Georgiana to decide whether or not to extend an invitation.

Soon, he again heard heard the echoing of footsteps down the hallway, this time accompanied with voices. Again he tensed in expectation, this time knowing Elizabeth would enter the room with Bingley.

“Here we are, Miss Elizabeth,” Charles said, allowing her to precede him. “Do make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bingley,” he heard her say. Her voice was smiling and he imagined her glowing with delight at Bingley’s attentions to her on behalf of her sister. He turned his head in her direction and caught her eye long enough to nod.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mr. Darcy.” Now her speech was clipped and flat.

“Miss Elizabeth, how good of you to join us. Miss Bennet is resting comfortably, I trust?” Caroline was all sweetness.

“Yes. I believe she is a little better. The quiet does her good.” Elizabeth opened her book and could be heard turning the pages until she found her place. 

For a time, the room settled into quiet, only interrupted by the tiny scraping of his quill and the periodic rustle of turned pages.

“You write uncommonly fast, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline then observed, coming to lean over him.

“You are mistaken, I write rather slowly.”

“How many letters you must have occasion to write, Mr. Darcy. Letters of business, too; how odious I should think them.”

“It is fortunate then that they fall to my lot instead of yours,” he reassured without looking up.

“Do tell your sister that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her once by your desire.”

“I do dote on her. I was quite in raptures at her beautiful little design for a table.” She circled the table to his other side, again lingering to looking over his shoulder.

“Perhaps you will give me leave to defer your raptures until I write again. At present, I have not length enough to do them justice,” he said, allowing some of his irritation to show though he tempered the end of his request with a hushed volume. Caroline looked a bit cowed by his response.

“Well, I think it’s amazing you ladies have the patience to be so accomplished,” Bingley chimed in. Caroline turned her attention to him.

“What do you mean, Charles?”

“You all paint tables and play the piano and embroider cushions. I never heard of a young lady but people say she is accomplished,” Charles claimed with a grin. Elizabeth smiled at him warmly over her book.

“The word is indeed applied too liberally,” Darcy stated, bringing her eyes back to him. “I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen women in all my acquaintance that are truly accomplished.”

“Nor I, to be sure.” Caroline resumed her circling. 

“Goodness, you must comprehend a great deal in the idea,” Elizabeth put in with astonishment. He allowed himself to meet her gaze with sincerity, ignoring the same jump in his chest that she chose to address him directly.

“I do.”

“Absolutely.” Caroline took up his cause. “She must have thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and the modern languages to deserve the word. And something in her air and manner of walking.”

“And, of course, she must improve her mind by extensive reading.” He glanced at the book Elizabeth held in her hands, hardly blinking when she then snapped it shut, as though denying she attempted to do just that.

“I’m no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women; I rather wonder now at your knowing any.” She leveled a calm, knowing look at him. He regarded her with solemn surprise.

“Are you so severe on your own sex?”

“I never saw such a woman. She would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold.” Charles laughed, treating her words as a jest though Darcy was unsure she meant them as one. He studied her for a moment with a frown, wondering why she would disparage the pursuit of feminine skills.

All of a sudden, Caroline stopped her tread in front of Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth, let us take a turn about the room.” Elizabeth looked up at her in amused uncertainty, wondering at Caroline’s odd request and unexpected desire for a partner. She stood, and would have begun their ‘turn’ had not Caroline stopped to take her arm as though they were the closest of friends. Several moments of silence commenced.

“It is refreshing, is it not? After sitting so long in one attitude?” Caroline drawled, glancing back at Darcy.

“And it is a small kind of accomplishment, I suppose,” was Elizabeth’s reply, teasing her lightly.

“Will you not join us, Mr. Darcy?” He waited a beat, conscious that Caroline was again drawing him into conversation with a purpose he could not guess. 

“You can only have two motives, Caroline, and I would interfere with either.”

“What can he mean?” she asked Elizabeth conspiratorially. 

“Our surest way of disappointing him would be to ask him nothing about it,” she replied. She was as reluctant to speak to him as he was to her, apparently.

“Oh, do tell us, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline wheedled. Again, he waited, weighing his counter carefully.

“Either you are in each others’ confidence and you have secret affairs to discuss,” he began, thinking it doubtful, “or you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking.” He turned slightly in he seat as they traveled, following them briefly with his eyes. “If the first, I should get in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better from here.” Charles chuckled at this.

“Shocking. How can we punish him for such a speech?” Caroline gave a coy look.

“We could always laugh at him,” Elizabeth offered, slowing in front of his table. He met her eyes, his brows drawing together.

“Oh, no. Mr. Darcy is not to be teased,” Caroline admonished. Elizabeth approached the table, looking at him shrewdly.

“Are you too proud, Mr. Darcy? And would you consider pride a fault or a virtue?” she wanted to know.

“That, I couldn’t say.”

“Because we are trying to find a fault in you.” 

“Perhaps it’s that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever,” he said, wondering why he revealed so much of himself. She measured this for a moment before smiling sympathetically.

“Oh dear, I cannot tease you about that. What a shame, for I dearly love to laugh.”

“A family trait, I think,” Caroline quipped from where she’d drifted. Before him, Elizabeth turned her head, discomfiture plain on her face. But she only smiled good-naturedly. His brows drew together, aware of Elizabeth with every fiber of his being as she made her way back to her seat.

He made an effort to return to his letter, but found himself going over the entire episode in his mind. To his disquiet, he discovered he was displeased with Caroline’s behavior much more so than Elizabeth’s. For all her polish and elegance, Caroline’s contempt was nothing more than a refined version of the behavior she was forever disparaging. He tried not to dwell too closely on this, or the fact that sparing verbally with Elizabeth had made his heart pound in earnest.

Another quarter hour passed agreeably before Elizabeth cleared her throat and rose. “I believe I must be getting back to my sister, Mr. Bingley,” said she. “I have been away long enough.”

“Will you not join us for dinner, Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley offered. Darcy closed his eyes, praying she would decline.

“No, thank you. You are very kind, Mr. Bingley.”

“Very well. I’ll have Susan bring two plates up to your room, shall I?” Bingley stood with the intention of making such arrangements.

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Elizabeth said again, delighted with his diligence. “Good night, Miss Bingley. Mr. Darcy.” Her voice this time was more kindly toward him and he stood as she prepared to leave the room. Meeting her eyes with a nod, he was again conscious of the duality of his reaction to her.

 

_________________________ _________________________

 

Some hours later, he returned to the drawing room in search of the book of poetry. He returned with it to his room, reading the same poems he’d examined earlier on the four seasons. Each one he applied in his mind to Pemberley, seeing its familiar vistas and scenery in his mind’s eye. He continued reading until he came to the realization that the voice reciting the words in his head was not his own, but that of Elizabeth. Thoroughly appalled at himself, he clapped the book shut and set it down vehemently on the bedside table.


	6. Of Nothing

**Be forewarned: The following contains romantically written situations of an adult nature. The reader is advised to exercise caution lest offense be committed without intent.**

 

He pressed his lips to the back of her neck, inhaling deeply of her scent even as soft wisps of hair tickled his nose. Beneath the skin, the pulse of her blood picked up speed as he trailed his fingertips along her naked arm. His mouth followed suit, pressing soft, lingering kisses. Her breathing became ragged, changing to audible gasps as he filled his palms with her petite breasts, massaging the sensitive tips between thumb and forefinger. A low sound of pleasure issued from her throat as her eyes fluttered, having drifted open at his ministrations.

The hardness of his body neared painful intensity but he persevered, leaning to take her nipple between his lips as one hand wandered down her torso. He suckled gently, teasing with the roughness of his tongue whilst stroking her quivering abdomen lower and lower until he felt short, soft curls against his hand. His fingers slipped into her effortlessly and a primitive growl escaped him as he gloried in the wet heat.

The sound was answered by a similar moan as her hips began to undulate, pressing into him. Shifting slightly, he pulled the length of her back against his chest so her buttocks pressed against him maddeningly. She turned her head, a wordless request for a kiss. Their lips came together hurriedly with two sets of shuddering breath mixing together in an oft-practiced dance that fed their frenzy for each other. When she was close to completion he joined with her from behind, fixing his teeth gently on the curve of her shoulder, closing his eyes at the exquisite sensation. He kept the movement as slow as he could stand to draw out their pleasure. As she crested, he stayed within her, matching her cries of ecstasy as the spasms clenched around him. Now he filled her completely, faster and faster until he was spent inside her.

Still connected, he gave a satisfied chuckle and nuzzled her neck again, feeling a familiar desire to memorize everything about the woman in his arms.

“And may I say good morning to _you_ , husband,” she panted after a moment. Her inner walls continued to tremble around him, a delicious remnant of their shared bliss. It was one of his many favorite ways to start the day.

“Mmmm… You may, but I would deign to call it a _very_ good morning, my love,” he rumbled in her ear. The fire in his blood had barely quelled with their first coupling; she giggled aloud when he next nibbled her earlobe.

“I see you are feeling shall we say, _vigorous_ this morning, Mr. Darcy?” she teased, arching her back.

“Vigorous is but one word,” he equivocated. “There are so many others. A more accurate word might be … hungry, or… famished. Perhaps ravenous.” He ran his tongue along the shell of her ear in a way he knew she liked. As expected, her mouth fell open, eyes closing to savor the sensation. His hands found her breasts again as he spent the next few minutes thoroughly exploring her ear and the side of her neck with his lips until she shivered.

“Are you cold, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked innocently. She laughed again, nudging him back with the point of her elbow.

“If you insist on behaving thusly, there will be consequences,” she told him with mock sincerity, biting her lip. Her teasing had the desired effect of making him begin to harden again where he still lay inside her.

“Really? I find it difficult to believe you,” he whispered playfully. He pulled back just enough to allow for another deep thrust, eliciting a gasp from his wife. Her eyes clouded and he grinned in triumph. 

“Very well, then. You leave me no choice, sir.” She rolled away, causing him to withdraw. Before he could feel the air against his skin, she straddled him, stroking with her hand before guiding him to her folds. Rapt, he watched as she lowered herself slowly, accepting him little by torturous little until her weight was settled atop him. Their eyes met, serious now. He felt an overwhelming love when she lifted his hands and lovingly kissed his palms, laying their hands together over her heart.

“God, I love you, Lizzie,” he breathed as she began to rock her hips rhythmically…

… His eyes shot open and he sat up in bed in the same motion. Breathing in great gulps of air, his heart raced as though he had run a long distance. He dripped sweat such as would accompany the breaking of a high fever. The room felt hot and close, the bedcovers too heavy and stifling over him. They twisted around his legs, pulled from the foot of the bed to expose his feet. Looking frantically from side to side, the sense of a second physical presence was all but palpable. Confused, he searched the shadows though all logic told him there was nothing to see and no one there. 

He was alone. Again. Still.

For the first time since the dreams began, the identity of the woman was no longer hidden. Rather than a nameless, faceless presence that left a memory of brown-eyes, it was a fully fleshed, living, breathing body. There was nothing for it; he could no longer say that it was a figment he made love to. 

The connection he tried so vigilantly to deny had been made for him in sleep. Elizabeth and the dream woman were now one and the same in his mind, no longer merely a stark similarity or the coincidental sharing of a distinct facial feature.

Through the panic, his body was still unbearably aroused though horrified dismay displaced the ardor with ruthless speed. Irrational though he knew it was, the entire experience put him more in mind of waking from a nightmare than something pleasant or blatantly erotic as the case happened to be. Once again the frank specificity of the dream left him mortally embarrassed.

The strain in his muscles gave way to an ache of restless, pent up tension. He struggled free from the prison of his bed, glancing at the sheets with a wary eye as though they lie in wait to drag him back under. He made his way to the doors leading to the balcony outside his room and flung them open impatiently. The cool of the air was welcoming and he continued to breathe deeply of its comfort.

As he paced, the cold stone beneath his bare feet served as a further reminder of the physical world to which he was bound. A world in which he was a fool to believe he was at liberty to marry just anyone no matter the consequence. It was a ridiculous dream indeed that led him in even beginning to think otherwise, particularly when it allowed him to imagine he could wed a woman who behaved like a common Cyprian.

_No dream will change the unsuitability of an imprudent match_ , he reminded himself. The thought that made him stop in alarm. When had he started thinking of Elizabeth as _any_ kind of match let alone an unsuitable one? _No_ , he thought, _No! I will not allow a dream to dictate my path!_ Attraction meant nothing. He could not let it. _I will not be swayed from this!_

Most difficult to reconcile was the distinct difference in this dream from any of the others. Not only did he know it was Elizabeth he dreamed of but all the details stayed with him this time as well. If his previous notion of the disturbing level of clarity and vibrancy of the dreams had been troubling, it was nothing to what he’d just awoken from. He could still taste her skin, recall the exact dusky pink hue of her nipple and the texture of it in his mouth, the exquisitely perfect confines of her womanhood. All of it seemed exactly designed to drive him mad with desire.

Vivid could no longer stand as an accurate descriptor for the world he entered at night. His every sense was imprinted with the undeniably tangible experience of making love to a woman. Every touch, every breath was there in his memory as though he had actually lived it. Had he the vocabulary, his mind would have leapt to ideas of past lives or parallel universes in its effort to grasp, to understand what was happening to him. As it was, he could only surmise that the depth of the connection his mind concocted was borne of the loneliness he had tried so long to ignore.

The chill worked its way up his legs, leaving the soles of his feet numbed. He wished its reach could encompass his body, mind and heart. He needed soothing salve for the rest of him or perhaps a numbing agent for his imagination and libido. His blood continued to hum with an unaccountable awareness. The woman he dreamed of was within the same house, on the same floor with only a few doors separating them. And she was none the wiser to his predicament. 

_Nor should she be, for God’s sake_.

The night air rapidly cooled his already damp skin and soon he was shivering, though the hot tangle of frustration never abated. He leaned against the railing, pressing his palms against the wide stone ledge. With unseeing eyes, he stared into the still black night as inexplicable fear continued to ebb with his anger. In its place, confused exhaustion took hold with an intensity he’d never before known. He lusted for her; that much was clear and he was rather disgusted with himself for it. Nothing could convince him of this so well as the irrefutable knowledge that the cold, rough stone beneath his hands and feet felt every bit as real to him as had the tactile warmth of her skin. The faint spice tingeing the autumn air was just as pungent and familiar to his nose as the scent of she that he called _Lizzie_.

Where had he heard _Lizzie_ , for that matter? _It suits her. Wasn’t that what her mother shouted?_ The traitorous voice wanted to know.

_It hardly matters if it suits her or where you heard it. She is Miss Elizabeth Bennet to you and nothing else._

He shoved away from the railing viciously, conscious of the inherent madness in arguing with oneself. Again, in a different age, he would have worried over the possibility of multiple personalities or hearing voices in one’s head. It certainly seemed as if two different people rattled about his skull, one of them evidently all too prepared to encourage the situation. The other at least provided the voice of reason and sanity.

He would simply have to choose to heed the latter and ignore the former. And, of course, consult a physician as soon as may be.

How to proceed, though?

Attraction, of course, must not be allowed to flower into something stronger. How could he but acknowledge it existed? Denial was pointless and would only lead to further madness. At least now he acknowledged it, he could set it aside along with that damned treacherous voice. He would pay neither any mind.

Strangely, a sense of sadness pervaded him then. Was he to pretend he felt nothing? It was the wiser course, no matter that his loneliness would continue unabated. The real problem, however, lay in his dismal skill at performance. He knew it to be so and did not attempt to seek a remedy. It was a luxury of his station to be tolerated even in places where he was considered unpleasant. After all, it was fool indeed who would choose to insult the very wealthy no matter how disagreeable the man. 

Quite simply, he had no reason to act as though he was suddenly concerned with others’ impression of him.

As he trudged back inside (for his teeth had begun to chatter ferociously) an even more distasteful possibility occurred to him. Logic dictated that the foundation of his attraction was the dreams. Perhaps that really was the * _only*_ reason he felt so inordinately drawn to her—because he associated her with such intimate visions. If that was the case, he worried it indicated a weakness of mind he had not before owned. Of course, it remained to be seen if this dream would be the only one that left in its wake such lucidity of mind. 

Really, his acquaintance with the real Elizabeth was quite trifling and there was certainly not much else to draw him to her. He could think of several ladies of Quality whose beauty was greater. Their manners, too, were polished to a high shine while Elizabeth was practically a hoyden. She was uncommonly enamored of being out of doors, for starters. Rarely did she wear the appropriate bonnet and gloves most ladies donned against the chill. Why, she had even appeared to he and Miss Bingley with her hair effectively let down, for goodness’ sake! Aside from all this, she was certainly far too pert and opinionated for her own good. 

He steadfastly ignored the voice that reminded him that despite their beauty those same London ladies brought to mind more hair than wit among them.

_Elizabeth has plenty of both_.

Had not Caroline told them just last night that Jane shared with her they had an uncle in trade who resided in Cheapside, of all places? She was particularly eager to relate that Miss Bennet revealed the family estate Longbourn was entailed upon a male cousin. With so little to recommend her and her sisters as matches, Elizabeth would quickly learn to regret her lively ways. 

_No wonder the Bennets are so eager for Jane and Bingley to take to each other. They must be relying on her to raise their fortunes since she is not only the eldest but also in possession of the most beauty and sense of propriety_.

Back to the matter at hand, he paced the floor next to the bed, rubbing warmth back into his hands and arms. If Elizabeth’s only hold on him hinged solely on the dreams, it ought to be easy enough to dispel. He would turn any weakness on his part into strength and utilize the opportunity to inure himself to her presence. And if successful, he would no longer be susceptible to the failings of lustfulness. Even better, the dreams might end as well. _At last_.

And so it was with cautious hope that Darcy decided once again to head to the stables for a calming ride. As it was barely dawn, he dressed without aide and walked the silent halls quickly, trying not to imagine who lay behind certain doors. Bingley mentioned Elizabeth insisted upon sharing her sister’s rooms incase she needed something or worsened during the night.

He nipped briefly into the larder and took two apples, one each for himself and Admiral, for apples were the horse’s favorite. The first fingers of dawn light had just begun to grip the sky as he exited the kitchens. The glow of moist air brightened as he walked, picking his way carefully over the stone-dotted ground. The door to the stable was still closed; it’s occupants ostensibly still abed. 

He heaved the large door open upon its slider, making note to mention it needed greasing. As he stepped inside, he was surprised to see one of the young grooms standing in front of Admiral’s stall. The boy was leaning against the door with a dazed expression and Darcy wondered irritably if the boy had slept in the stall for warmth. He knew street urchins in London tended to do so and were regularly rousted from the mews of a morning in winter.

“You there… Edmund, is it?” He inquired, wondering how the boy had missed his entrance. The boy jumped in surprise, springing away from the stall door to make an awkward bow. The boy looked to be only slightly over ten years and was dressed roughly. Darcy made another mental note to tell Bingley he would have to have a livery designed for the stables if he intended to stay at Netherfield long term.

“Yessir,” the boy bobbled again, with a hand on his cap. “Edmund, sir, at your service, sir.” As an afterthought, the boy tightened his fingers on the cap and took it from his head, holding it in front of his body like a small shield. Darcy sighed. It seemed servants other than his own were always waiting for him to get angry or mete out punishment.

“I wish to ride, Edmund,” he ordered in a softer voice. “Saddle Admiral for me… please.” The nicety came belatedly, but the boy relaxed some nonetheless.

“Oh… certainly, sir,” he said with relief. “May I say, Admiral’s the best ‘orse I ever met, sir. Near everyone says so.” He spied the apples in Darcy’s hand. “He’s like to get spoilt with people admirin ‘im.”

Darcy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Why, just now someone else come to give ‘im a treat.” Edmund’s voice was muffled as he darted into the tack room for Darcy’s saddle.

“Why wasn’t I made aware of this?” Darcy snapped. “Someone’s been visiting my horse?” He regretted his anger quickly when the boy returned with the look of fright back in his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stuttered, this time holding the saddle in front of himself. “I would ‘ave told you but today was only the second time she come.”

“Who came, Edmund?”

“A lady from the ‘ouse, sir,” he mumbled, his accent becoming more pronounced. “The pretty one wiv dark ‘air what’s ‘ere for her sick sister. I ‘eard a noise from my cot, sir, and come down from the ‘ayloft to check the ‘orses. Miss Lizzie she said to call her, and gave Admiral two lumps of sugar, said it would be our secret. She just left, sir. Said she was out for a walk, she was.” He pointed to the far end of the barn were the other large sliding door was open slightly.

“She… came once before?” Darcy asked, staring in the direction he indicated. Edmund blinked at the change in his demeanor, for Darcy was unaware of neither the warmth that entered his voice at the question nor the softening of his eyes.

“Yessir. She come last night too. Found ‘er right in the stall with Admiral, talkin to ‘im like a ol’ friend. She didn’t give ‘im nothin then but said ‘e was the most beautiful ‘orse she ever seen. I asked if she was lookin to ride but she said she don’t much remember how to. ‘Asn’t since she were a little girl.” 

Darcy continued to look toward the far door and Edmund continued to look at him. The groom had never seen the man’s face so open and unguarded; Darcy’s mouth fell open slightly as he pondered the direction the lady had taken and his eyebrows quirked slightly in thought. He looked years younger than only moments before, and the boy experienced the strange idea that the man before him could easily have been someone other than one of the wealthiest men in England. In a flash, his expression closed and Darcy cleared his throat, making Edmund jump again. Darcy frowned down at the apple in his hand as if he forgot how it came to be there.

“I’ll have Admiral ready in a jot, sir.” 

“Yes… thank you, Edmund.” The boy hesitated, then turned to shoulder the stall door open, shaking his head at the vagaries of the rich. He’d worked for some very eccentric people in his short life, but Mr. Bingley’s friend was one of most taciturn. He was typically polite in his address but not particularly friendly except with Admiral. Edmund saw and appreciated the way the man treated the horse, but with people he had wide varieties of temper. Why should it confound him that someone else liked his horse? If anything, he ought to be pleased by the compliment.

It was nothing to the shock he’d gotten at finding a lady in Admiral’s stall, though. Most of them sniffed and wrinkled their noses at the ever-present smell of hay and manure and spent as little time as possible in the stables. Any dirt at all caused them to squeal like stuck pigs and rail at him for not keeping the place clean enough. Just after their arrival, in fact, Mr. Bingley’s sister had chastised him for touching the seat of her saddle with dirty hands, complaining that she would get her dress soiled when she rode.

Most people in general, whether ladies or gentlemen, never looked at him directly in any case, except to order him around or tell him something he did was wrong. But Miss Lizzie seemed different. She had looked him in the face and spoken to him kindly. She made him feel like he wasn’t just a groom in a stable but someone to be trusted. She had asked his name and even told him to call her by her own. He almost felt bad for telling the frighteningly sober Mr. Darcy her secret since she’d been so nice to him, but figured the owner had a right to know what went on with his horse. He’d been taught to never keep such things from those who paid his wages. Technically Mr. Bingley paid him, but everyone knew Mr. Bingley listened to Mr. Darcy a great deal, so it wouldn’t do to cross either one. 

Besides, he thought Miss Lizzie had been mostly teasing when she said not to tell. Admiral was certainly taken with her, leaning into her hand when she rubbed his nose and scratched his neck. To Edmund, this was as good a gage as any for the measure of a person. Horses could usually tell the good sort of people from the bad, especially horses as smart as Admiral.

He supposed that meant Admiral’s master was also a good sort of person, for the horse clearly liked him very much. After all, the man only made Edmund very nervous when he was around; he was never truly mean to him. It wasn’t Mr. Darcy’s fault Edmund was more comfortable among animals than people. Edmund’s own father, the head groom, told him as much nearly everyday.

Edmund hoped he would never act so strangely over a girl. He wondered, too, if Mr. Bingley’s friend knew what was very obvious to Edmund after that morning. 

Mr. Darcy was falling in love with pretty Miss Lizzie Bennet.

 

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~

 

Late the next morning, Darcy had not long been at breakfast with Bingley and his sister when Mr. Myles entered, looking ever so slightly less staid than usual. The three of them looked up as he scuffed to a stop between the pillars.

“A Mrs. Bennet, a Miss Bennet, a Miss Bennet and… a Miss Bennet, sir,” he pronounced with care, pausing to make sure all Bennets were accounted for.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, are we to receive every Bennet in the country?” Caroline said in ill temper. She glared pointedly at her brother, who quirked his head. 

“Perhaps I forgot to mention, um,” he floundered a bit under her glare, “Miss Bennet’s family are coming to collect her today?”

“Yes,” Caroline snapped in a brittle tone. “I dare say it quite slipped your mind, Charles.”

“Miss Elizabeth told me yesterday Miss Bennet is well enough to return home,” Charles continued, showing the first hint of his disappointment. “She sent a note yesterday afternoon. Her mother replied that they would come in the family carriage to escort her back to Longbourn. They are rather earlier than I thought and I did not realize she would bring all the rest of her daughters, though she was insistent upon coming in person…” He trailed off with alarm as Caroline’s look of aggravation grew. She set her buttering knife down with a clatter.

“Of course she was,” she said dangerously. Her eyes slid to Darcy, who kept his attention trained on the table at the news. Bingley shrugged and pushed back from the table, immediately consumed with nerves at the idea of entertaining his favorite’s family on such short notice. 

“Give us a moment, Myles, then show them into the east sitting room, I think.” The steward hesitated. “Yes, the east sitting room,” Bingley said with more conviction, straightening his frock coat again.

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Myles nodded and turned, taking a deliberate breath of fortitude before opening the door to face the gaggle of females once more.

Darcy knew only relief that Elizabeth would soon be away from the house and that much farther removed from his presence. It was likely that Bingley’s continued interest in her sister would cause them to meet again regardless. The additional stress of anticipating his every interaction with her wore heavily on his sensibilities. He felt sure she was unaware of his conflicted feelings but could not bring himself to mourn the loss nearly as much as his friend.

He hadn’t seen much of her since the previous morning when he rode past her while returning to Netherfield from his ride.

He approached at her back from some distance away, taking note of her bowed head. Her hair was still plaited in a single braid down her back and she again wore the dark overcoat from her arrival. She walked slowly with a halting gait that at first gave him concern that she was somehow injured. As he drew closer, however, he saw a book in her hand that was surely the cause of her wandering steps. Her other hand was at her mouth where she chewed a thumbnail absentmindedly as she read.

Having assured himself of her welfare, he spurred Admiral to a canter. From the edge of his vision, he saw her start and pull her hand from her lips guiltily as he passed as though worried he would witness her habit and judge it a failing on her part. Though he did not look back, he could swear he felt her eyes follow him clear back to the stable.

Heaven forgive him if pride didn’t cause him to sit a bit straighter in the saddle as a result. He cursed his own conceit soundly when he almost checked to see if she had watched him take Admiral over a low jump before leading him to the mounting block.

The better part of the day found him ensconced determinedly in the library where he hoped to be safe from any intrusion. There were matters enough from Pemberley to occupy the majority of his attention. As it was, he understood Bingley had already shown Elizabeth the room and though she had professed her delight in detail at its bounty, refused his offer of a book or two for entertainment during her stay. She claimed her own book brought from home provided all the diversion she needed. Therefore, Darcy felt free to assume she would have little cause to visit the library again.

Damned if he did not have to ignore the slightest bit of disappointment that she did not, however.

She appeared at supper and attended closely to her sister when they both joined the party for a short time afterward. He had made a point to not look at her more than the flow of conversation demanded and kept his own counsel as much as possible. When the rest of the house retired, he even stayed up later than usual practicing billiards, hoping to be tired enough to avoid dreaming at all, if possible.

Darcy came back to himself to find Bingley looking at him expectantly.

“Shall we?” He tugged the end of his sleeves fretfully. It was on the tip of Darcy’s tongue to ask if his presence was really necessary. Instead, he took one last sip of tea, suppressed yet another sigh and rose to follow Bingley and his sister to the east sitting room.

The room was a mirror of the drawing room on the opposite side of the hall. It also had couches facing each other but rather than a desk, a third long fainting couch sat parallel to the windows. It was on this couch Caroline positioned herself carefully. Her dress reflected the latest in London fashion and as such, she arranged the skirts with a few practiced twitches to make them fall just so. Darcy resisted an urge to roll his eyes and moved to stand next to Bingley behind her. The latter anxiously attempted to smooth down his unruly hair before signaling the servant to open the doors.

Elizabeth entered first with a look of conscientious serenity about her. Only her hands twisting in front of her revealed any apprehension about the impending meeting. She dropped a hasty curtsey and sat on the couch to Darcy’s right. Though she wore the same dress she’d arrived in, it had by now been laundered clean of any offending mud and pressed to perfection.

Peculiar heat suffused his mid-section as he once again noticed the tiny lace scallops dotting the neckline.

At that moment, a cacophony came to his ears that served only to reinforce his decision to ignore such feelings. Just beyond their view of the threshold, a great chorus of hissing sounds filled the hallway as though a nest of vipers had been stirred. This time he did roll his eyes, for despite the silence such an action usually engendered, one female voice continued to titter uncontrollably. A conspicuous ruddiness stole into Elizabeth’s cheeks.

En masse, the remaining Bennet ladies entered the room and sat sighingly on the couch opposite Elizabeth. The mother and two daughters beside her were dressed in what appeared to be their Sunday best in bright spring colors. They three looked nearly overcome with excited admiration. The daughter bringing up the rear, conversely, was dressed in nearly unrelieved darkness and wore a bored expression. Before Bingley could open his mouth, Mrs. Bennet began to speak.

“What an excellent room you have, sir,” she gushed, stroking the arm of the couch. “Such expensive furnishings. Oh, I do hope you intend to stay here, Mr. Bingley?” Her eyebrows raised in entreaty. Darcy imagined Mrs. Bennet internally adding up pounds as she surveyed the room’s décor.

“Absolutely,” Bingley complied charmingly. “I find the country very diverting. Don’t you agree, Darcy?” He blinked at this unexpected application for his opinion. 

“I find it perfectly adequate even if the society is a little less varied than in Town,” he said without much thought.

“Less varied? Not at all,” Mrs. Bennet replied with some indignation. “We dine with four and twenty families of all shapes and sizes.” The daughter closest to her giggled uncontrollably again. “Sir William Lucas, for example, is a very agreeable man, and is a good deal less self-important than some people half his rank.” Darcy’s eyes narrowed in a scowl at this. He swore the blush staining Elizabeth’s face deepened but could not bring himself to worry for her discomfort.

“Mr. Bingley,” one of her other sisters began, “is it true you’ve promised to hold a ball here at Netherfield?”

“A ball? Um—“ Charles hesitated. Darcy felt sure he hadn’t said anything of the kind.

“It would be an excellent way to make new friends. You could invite the militia,” she continued. “They’re excellent company.”

“Oh, do hold a ball!” The girl next to Mrs. Bennet could no longer contain herself and bounced in her seat. Darcy grimly surmised she was definitely the source of the majority of the earlier giggling.

“Kitty.” Elizabeth drew her attention and gave a minute shake of her head. The silent admonishment gave Darcy pause as his gaze lingered on her. It ought to have been Mrs. Bennet reining in her daughter, not Elizabeth. Mrs. Bennet, however, missed the exchange and did nothing to discourage the idea of Bingley’s compliance. He suspected it was a position Elizabeth found herself in with frequency.

“When your sister is recovered, you shall name the day,” Charles indulged with a smile. The two youngest nearly jumped from their seats in excitement at the news.

“I think a ball is a perfectly irrational way to make new acquaintance,” the third sister put in suddenly. Her sisters stared daggers as she continued and even her mother looked round in surprise. “It would be better if conversation instead of dancing were the order of the day.”

“Indeed, much more rational but a rather less like a ball,” Caroline pointed out, her face tightening. The unrestrained silliness of their talk had apparently surpassed the height of Caroline’s tolerance level. It might have also been attributed to being volunteered by her brother to host a ball she had to wish to give.

“Thank you, Mary,” Elizabeth said after a short pause. Now, rather than embarassed, she looked amused that her sisters had managed to dislodge Caroline’s usually unruffled countenance. 

Another clumsy silence was about to stretch too long when a soft knock sounded at the door. A maid entered timidly and bowed to the assembled.

“If you please, sir, Miss Bennet is almost ready to come down.”

“Miss Elizabeth, allow me to assist you in collecting your things.” Caroline rose gracefully and gave her a tiny smile. Her brother looked at her in surprise at her failure to offer their guests refreshment of any kind before their return trip. Instead, she made it clear she wanted them gone as soon as possible.

“Ah… Mrs. Bennet, shall I escort you all to your carriage?” Bingley offered with a bow. Darcy grimaced slightly as Mrs. Bennet blushed like a maid and the two youngest began again to giggle. The third rolled her eyes at their folly.

In the space of a minute, Darcy was alone in the room with servants, guests and household having scattered completely. He let out a breath he was unaware of holding. The Bennet women left him feeling thoroughly exhausted.

Much to his chagrin, propriety dictated his presence at the farewell, though he considered disappearing to his rooms. He amused himself in thinking of taking such drastic action if only to save Mrs. Bennet from further perceived injury at the hands of his _self-importance_ , rather than saving himself from being subjected to further ridiculousness.

Instead, he made his way slowly down to the gravel drive where the Bennet family carriage awaited, ruing his rigorous attention to matters of obligation and propriety. 

Aside from a general dislike of him, the reason for Mrs. Bennet’s cut was clear. Obviously, Elizabeth would have told her family of his slight against her at the assembly, thus sealing his fate as an unpleasant, haughty man. _No matter_ , he thought. _I refuse to go so low as to be completely without manners_.

Later, he would wish he had stolen away.

At length, he heard the noisy approach of Bingley and the ladies before they descended the stairs and braced himself. Mrs. Bennet exclaimed loudly she was certain a tapestry they passed was the largest and most opulent she had ever seen; the girls’ incessant laugher nearly drowned out her words.

Darcy gritted his teeth. 

As expected, not one of them gave more than the obligatory acknowledgement to him but smiled and bobbed to Bingley as he handed them one by one into the carriage though Darcy also stood to the side, just as ready to assist.

“What a fine, imposing place it is to be sure, is it not, my dears? There’s no house to equal it in the county,” he heard Mrs. Bennet tell them. He looked up to see Jane Bennet approaching them, looking rested if a bit pale. She nodded to him politely.

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Miss Bennet.”

“Mr. Bingley, I don’t know how to thank you,” she said in earnest. 

“You’re welcome anytime you feel the least bit poorly,” Charles said with a grin, offering his hand for her support.

Darcy tried not to tense up as Caroline approached with Elizabeth. “Thank you for your stimulating company. It has been most instructive,” the latter said diplomatically. He wondered if Caroline realized she was being teased to her face.

“Not at all, the pleasure is all mine,” she replied without feeling. The two curtsied and Elizabeth continued on.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said quickly with a look of distaste.

“Miss Elizabeth.” He gave a cursory nod, feeling no little irritation when she, too, turned and supplied a warm smile for Bingley. 

Perhaps it was that irritation that took hold of him then. Perhaps vestiges of the dream were to blame. Perhaps he wanted to unsettle her in the same way he himself had been unsettled since setting eyes on her. Perhaps it was the influence of the fine weather. Whatever the reason, Darcy’s body at that moment seemed not entirely under his control. Rather, it seemed to undertake an experiment the likes of which could not have been planned more perfectly to demonstrate the true level of his danger.

Before he could prevent it, he took Elizabeth’s ungloved hand as she entered the carriage. From a place far removed, he noted she looked down in surprise to find her hand in his. The second their skin met, his insides turned over. A tremor traveled up his arm, his breath stopped, and his heart throbbed. A deep well of yearning yawned wide and tempting. 

Without conscious intent, the touch took on the qualities of a caress more than disinterested assist as his thumb grazed over her knuckles. He did not let go until the last moment. Their eyes met for a brief moment before he turned to go back inside. In that moment, he saw her utter confusion at his action.

His hand felt hot like he held it too close to the fire, which he would later suppose was all too accurate. Though he kept his arms down to his sides, he stretched still tingling fingers as he walked and did not stop until he reached his rooms. If anyone tried to speak to him during that time, he was deaf to the sound. 

After closing the doors, he stared grimly at the offending appendage as though another digit had sprung up from nothing. He touched it with his other hand and walked to the window to examine it in better lighting. Externally, at least, it felt quite normal if not cool to the touch from being outside. Internally, though, it still tingled with heat at every point that came in contact with Elizabeth. Dismayed, he shook it slightly and rubbed the fingertips together.

What possessed him to touch her, especially when she wore no gloves? The soft promise of her skin would no doubt haunt him. How long would he pay the price of dream filled nights for this transgression? And worse yet, why in God’s name did he want so badly to touch her again?


	7. Lord, What Fools

A few days after the Bennet sisters returned home, Bingley called at Longbourn, ostensibly to inquire after the elder’s recovery. He found Mrs. Bennet and her daughters at home along with a visiting relation whose name he could not remember by the time he had returned to Netherfield. 

Though Bingley would have happily dropped by much earlier, the visit was delayed because he was loath to embark on a first visit to his favorite’s household without Darcy. Desperate to avoid more contact with Elizabeth though, the latter managed to find a number of excuses to keep from accompanying him until Bingley finally decided to venture forth alone.

Upon receiving reassurances that Miss Bennet was back to her previous health, he was promptly reminded by her mother that the youngest Bennet had been given the right to name the day of the ball. Bingley, who quite wished the promise forgotten, stammered that he supposed he had indeed said that very thing. 

When Lydia Bennet proceeded to name a date only a fortnight hence however, Bingley was forced to admit that he had in fact discussed the matter with his sister who insisted she could not possibly be expected to give a ball with less than a full month’s planning and preferably more. Though Elizabeth and Jane stated empathy for Miss Bingley’s position, their mother and sisters were less accommodating. In the face of the Bennets’ collective disappointment, Bingley suggested a compromise.

Thus, it was decided the Netherfield Ball would be in just over three weeks time.

When Bingley returned home, he dutifully endured his sister’s wrath with as much dignity as he could muster. Her vociferous displeasure was expressed in her private sitting room where she insisted he return to Longbourn at once to tell the Bennets the ball would be in a month’s time and no less. Bingley refused to budge (albeit somewhat meekly), citing a desire for his word to be trusted, particularly since promises had already been made.

Fortunately, he had to dodge only one hairbrush, one vase, and one pillow, all of which were thrown with great enthusiasm (and surprisingly good aim) at his head and all of which he was able to dodge. Upon hearing the disturbance, Darcy approached with caution, waiting a short ways down the hallway for his friend to emerge. He wondered how many injuries (and possibly walls) would need to be patched up when the dust settled. Though Caroline chose to believe otherwise, it was not the first time Darcy had witnessed the secondhand evidence of her tantrums.

After a moment of utter silence, Bingley exited the room, closing the door directly behind himself. 

“Caroline is displeased, it seems,” he said needlessly, tugging down his coat. Darcy’s lips twitched as he visualized the picture of rage now hidden behind the door; perhaps there was even now steam issuing from under the lady’s fiery coiffure.

“So I gathered,” he agreed, lips twitching. He felt it was the safest response he could possibly make.

Neither of them owned to any great surprise when Miss Bingley declined to be in their company for the rest of the day, citing a headache as the cause for her absence. The gentlemen enjoyed a leisurely meal followed by several games of billiards, never once expressing the tacit shared relief that they would not be forced to endure hostile glances and icy silence from the lady of the house.

When Caroline graced them with her presence the next day, however, she behaved as though the ball was nothing more than the most minor irritant and she had never really been anything but willing to oblige her brother’s wishes. No one felt the need to contradict this change of heart, though the truth was common knowledge amongst the staff.

The next weeks were lost to a haze of preparatory activity. Rooms that had thus far been neglected and left shrouded where aired, dusted, cleaned, and the wood oiled until all surfaces shone. In particular, the large dining room, designated to serve as one of two ballrooms, received special attention from Bingley. He enjoyed dancing to an extent unusual even amongst the gentry and wanted to make sure the neighborhood (and thereby, Jane Bennet) had never seen so well appointed a house, so enjoyable an event, or such grand ballrooms.

Still, Bingley’s level of anticipatory anxiety was such that Darcy began to heartily wish the idea had never been mentioned by the youngest Bennet who elicited Bingley’s promise. At times, he would have cheerfully rewound the clock to the morning of the Bennets’ visit and slipped laudanum in Bingley’s morning drink simply to keep him from agreeing to any part of the scheme.

Bingley’s admiration for the eldest Bennet daughter flagged not a wit in the interim, though circumstances kept them from meeting very often. He spoke of her frequently and when he was not expounding upon her virtues audibly, Darcy could tell she was in his thoughts. He had taken to staring around distractedly and examining love poems, even going so far as to read certain passages aloud, calling for discussion and evaluation of the words. (Usually, Charles did not have the patience to sit and read for any significant stretch of time, but rather had several books in constant progress that even with the best of intentions he nearly always failed to finish.) When applied to for his opinion, Darcy equivocated as much as possible, striving to keep his commentary non-committal. He gave scholarly if not particularly personal judgments on the poetry, feeling much as he had as a student at Cambridge.

Caroline still seemed determined to discourage her brother’s preference, but did so as obliquely as possible. She would change the subject whenever that of Jane Bennet arose or attempt to draw her brother into other pursuits, never stating her opinions outright beyond a decided expression of distaste. At such times, she would direct a pointed glance in Darcy’s direction, under the apparent assumption that they were once again of one mind that Miss Bennet was not a suitable match for her brother. Darcy chose just as pointedly to leave her assumption unacknowledged for the time being.

Much to Darcy’s relief, Bingley’s desire to discuss love poetry outstripped his concern for the actual responses received from his companions. His internal musings conveniently occupied the chief of his attention, diverting any concern he might have given to Caroline or Darcy’s menial input. It was a pattern Bingley had traced before when smitten with more than one young lady, for his approachable and engaging nature led his affections to be very easily engaged as well. Though his past flirtations tended more toward infatuation than serious design, Darcy continued to worry his friend was forming a far deeper attachment than any he previously entertained. Far more worrisome was the possibility that these feelings might yet prove to be unalterable or one sided.

Despite the initial fit of pique, Caroline soon commandeered by right of her position as hostess a few specific areas of preparation, leaving the mundane practicalities to her brother. Of highest import to her were those aspects whose execution would best reflect her superb sense of refinement, elegance, and style. She wanted no opportunity squandered in which she could impress upon the people of Meryton her superiority of taste and fashion, providing the only true example to which she felt they would ever be able to aspire. 

Conveniently, her brother was prepared to cede any personal preference in exactly the same areas in order to keep the tentative peace. (Perhaps this acquiescence was more expressly borne of the desire to avoid more episodes during which nearby objects might be utilized as projectiles aimed at his person.)

Caroline spent hours dithering over various small details of entertainment, décor, and refreshment. She poured over the most current popular music, debating the merits of instrumental combinations; the virtues of string quintets as opposed to quartets or trios. She played with different arrangements of flowers, ribbons, and fabrics. When it came to the choice of punch to be served, she insisted on sampling a variety of concoctions herself. Difficult too was settling upon the manner of dress that ought to be required of attendees. Here, Darcy privately observed, Caroline obsessed for quite some time, vacillating between several aesthetic motifs currently in vogue amongst the * _ton*_.

With growing regularity, she presented elaborate pageants in which the servants were sharply directed to parade options before Darcy and Bingley, Caroline all the while claiming she * _simply couldn’t*_ decide by herself which colors, blossoms, flavors, etcetera, to choose for the ball. She would present each choice with such studied indifference that the two gentlemen initially felt safe expressing their preference in no uncertain terms. Imagine their surprise then, to discover nothing so important in their role as audience members than to first discover which option was Caroline’s first choice and subsequently to find themselves in praising agreement.

Even after the gentlemen became wise to the nature of the game, Caroline continued in several instances to make noises of severe uncertainty. And so it was, only a week into her fevered planning, she stated the absolute necessity of consulting her equally fashionable friends in London. To this end she used ridiculous amounts of paper to send multiple letters with alarming frequency. The post riders responsible for currying her expresses from London and back were thoroughly sick of seeing the Bingley seal. They felt sure the correspondence must have something to do with a sick relative or some equally serious family circumstance.

All in all, Darcy found Caroline’s dramatics of indecision amusing in light of her voluble anger in the beginning.

Ultimately, it was determined that attendees would be asked to adhere to a color theme insomuch as their wardrobes allowed this far from the many fashionable modistes of Town. (Caroline’s exact words were ‘in this country backwater’—a phrase she shrewdly refrained from repeating in the formal invitations.) Charles hesitantly suggested the theme be kept simple, since there would inevitably be a limited amount of time for their guests to account for unusual requirements. Caroline purposely ignored him, though her hands clenched into ill-tempered little fists at any mention of the abbreviated timetable.

Upon hearing the particulars of this latest idea, Darcy’s sense of disquiet grew. More than anything, he had hoped to avoid thoughts of a certain someone until her presence at the ball left him no choice. It occurred to him the chosen theme could end up including any one of a number of colors or combinations thereof that he now associated with her, though the chances of this were admittedly quite slim. Still, foreknowledge of the ladies’ attire would undoubtedly allow his newly colorful imagination to continue running wild.

At last, Caroline announced the ladies would be asked to wear white or as pale a color as possible; the gentlemen, excepting the red coats of militia officers, would wear black and white. 

Despite the obvious matrimonial implications, the choice seemed innocuous enough and Darcy felt a small measure of cautious relief that proved frustratingly premature. His mind promptly furnished visions of her in various styles of white dress dancing with a parade of faceless young men, her enjoyment no less complete than it had been at the Meryton Assembly.

Preparations for the ball meant he and Charles had spent less and less time in each other’s company as the day approached. Occasionally, Charles would ride out with him to get away from the house, but his company was more in body than in spirit, his thoughts even more scattered than usual. Besides his distraction over Miss Bennet, Bingley insisted upon supervising the many renovations or repairs he felt were needed both inside and outside the house, as well as the application of fresh paint to brighten the walls.

Aside from offering occasional advice on matters related to the estate, Darcy found he was far too frequently left to his own devices. Reflections of _her_ cropped up with increasing frequency. He began composing lists in his head as a means of distraction; he listed the monarchs of England and France in order of ascendancy, and then moved on to Roman emperors. He named every tenant at Pemberley he could remember, and went through the sculptures and paintings in the gallery in alphabetical order. When these became tiresome, he sought out his favorite poems and Shakespearean sonnets and endeavored to memorize them taking great care to avoid the subject of love and to imagine the voice reciting them was his aunt Catherine. He even considered brushing up on his knowledge of Latin – anything to keep his thoughts appropriately occupied. 

During the day his plan enjoyed relative success. Evening and night were another matter entirely. 

After several consecutive nights of still more vivid dreams, he enacted a second part to his plan that had worked while she had stayed at Netherfield. For several evenings in a row, he found various methods to keep awake longer than necessary in the hopes that his mind would be too exhausted to do more than rest. He would walk outside in the garden after dinner until it was too dark to see or practice billiards alone until the hour grew late or copy long letters to Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam in his best penmanship. He would read at least an hour longer than usual, forcing himself to focus intently on the words of books with subjects outside his normal purview, hoping they would therefore sharpen his attention. He would also rise each morning at dawn to ride before breaking his fast with the Bingleys, thereby lengthening his day that much more.

After less than a full week, however, he abandoned this facet of his plan.

One morning at breakfast, which had been a relatively quiet affair since the decampment of the Bennet sisters, Caroline commented loudly and with great concern on the sudden appearance of dark circles under Darcy’s eyes. She expressed the erroneous fear that illness had finally seized him, concluding it surely stemmed from the day he’d ridden out in the rain against her express advice. Upon reassurances that he felt hale and whole as always, Caroline suggested he have the servants exchange his current bed with one from another room if it would ease his slumber. Even Bingley roused himself from the ever-present book of love poetry to state his agreement that Darcy did indeed look a bit haggard and drawn. 

The revelation that Caroline entertained any thoughts whatsoever about his bed was alarming enough; he possessed a natural inclination to remove himself from anything that gave her further reason to fawn over him. Bingley’s agreement with his sister was equally troubling, given his usual inattention to detail and more recent causes for abstraction.

Congruent to his friends’ concerns, Darcy began to suspect part of the dreams’ continuing influence was the result of his giving them far too much consequence. Why should trifling dreams compromise his rest? Despite his determination to prevent the dreams from dictating his future, he’d allowed them to control his actions in an attempt to avoid them altogether. From that moment on, he resolved to devote his energies to another tack; he would simply act as though the dreams did not exist. Even if he awoke with perfect recall of them in the morning, he would go about his day as though he did not. He would exert a different type of control by undermining the fear of the dreams, giving them no power to continue disrupting his life.

Fortunately, his return to routine did not signify a return of the dreams. If Darcy felt this was a welcome reprieve from the profound confusion and forbidden fascination that marked his prior understanding, it went unappreciated. If he knew any disappointment upon waking that another night had passed without interruption, it was promptly squelched. The dark circles and other signs of sleeplessness disappeared as though they too never existed and the attention of his companions was deflected back to their respective preparations.

A few days before the ball, Caroline’s temper had so deteriorated that the men opted to remove themselves from the premises for a time. Though such errands were generally consigned to servants, the two of them offered to undertake a journey into the village for a few last minute purchases. Once again, there was a sense of liberation between them to be away from the increasingly volatile presence of Bingley’s sister. Thought Charles was still caught up with nerves himself, he seemed to have come to an unusual acceptance that all he could do had been done to ensure the ball’s success. Darcy’s feelings on the approaching event were quite mixed. He alternately felt glad it would soon be over and distress that it was still to come; he suspected Bingley’s feelings were similar.

When they were but minutes outside the bounds of Netherfield, the mood lifted considerably and they embarked on harmless topics of conversation. In Meryton, they separated briefly, Bingley to buy the items he’d been tasked to acquire, and Darcy to post correspondence. Several times before they quit town, Darcy thought he spied a familiar face amongst the crowd or through the window of a shop but dismissed it as nothing more than the residual strain of having been without social interaction at Netherfield. At one point, he found himself following the footsteps of a woman who bore resemblance to a certain someone in the direction of the milliners before he could knew what he was doing. As she disappeared around a corner, he lost sight of her and shook himself, repeating a harsh litany that had been absent from his internal dialogue for some days.

Soon after gathering their horses, Darcy again took note of that peculiar restlessness in Bingley that usually preceded some kind of disclosure of a nature potentially distasteful to the recipients. Bingley glanced at his friend hesitantly from under the brim of his hat and seemed about to speak, his mouth opening and closing like an absurd fish. Darcy felt shaken and irritable from the disconcerting visit to town and was in no mood to humor his friend’s silly reluctance.

“You want to visit Longbourn, don’t you?” he stated flatly. His friend’s guilty smile was all the confirmation needed. Darcy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. It was difficult to determine which of the two he found most objectionable then, returning to the tense environment at Netherfield or the pronounced lack of grace that would be attendant at Longbourn. Despite his recent affirmation regarding the dreams, it was on the tip of his tongue to insist they return to the house lest their presence be missed. He had but a very few number of days, after all, before being forcibly reminded of that which he would rather forget. Before he had to face _her_.

“Would you mind terribly? I would like to see Miss Bennet before I’m bound to play host at the ball,” Bingley said hesitantly. The innocent hopefulness in Bingley’s face made Darcy’s retort die on his lips. He cast about for sufficient reason to prevent the detour and found nothing. One less day of peace, he admitted grudgingly, was likely a small price to pay since depriving Bingley would only ensure his discourse for the rest of the evening featured nothing but Jane Bennet. He frantically considered leaving Bingley to continue alone again but did not think his friend would appreciate being abandoned yet again.

“Very well Bingley, but we’d best keep it brief,” he snapped after a moment. Bingley’s grin was blinding as he turned his horse in the direction of Longbourn, completely unaware or choosing to overlook Darcy’s rudeness. With a regretful sigh, he followed a few paces behind, wishing not for the first time he could match Bingley’s ease and cheerful mood. There was nothing for it now but to pray she was not at home.

The path led them through a small copse of dense trees that opened upon a clearing that paralleled a stream still swollen from the recent rains. Absently, Darcy imagined it must feed into the lake near Longbourn. 

* _Yes, that lake. The lake where you hid from her like a child*_ , he thought sulkily. All the memories and thoughts he’d been methodically turning away were now flashing through his mind like a flock of deranged starlings.

They entered the clearing and had been following the stream for a few minutes when as a group of people came into view on the opposite bank.

“Look, Mr. Bingley!” It was Jane Bennet and several of her sisters who soon drew abreast of her position. At first, Darcy felt a wave of relief. _She_ was not with them.

Then from behind a tree, she emerged. An unwelcome thrill ran through him at the sight of her — immediately he took note that her hair was half down again. Today’s dress was unusual and appeared homemade from a light brown fabric that mimicked a man’s waistcoat above the skirt; a patterned piece of fabric served as a light shawl. It was several moments before he realized she was not alone, but in the company of a red-coated militia officer. The corners of his mouth pulled down in a frown as he noted their comfortable proximity and her playful expression. The two stood apart from the others and had clearly been cozy in conversation together.

Time began to slow as he shifted his eyes to the man who so blithely held Elizabeth’s attention.

Faintly, he was aware of Bingley speaking to them across the water. One of the younger girls began skipping about in the edge of his vision but he was deaf to her folly. A dull roaring filled his head as the officer’s face sharpened in cruel recognition. Barbed tendrils of shock made him dizzy and nauseated. Just as suddenly, the use of his ears returned.

“Be sure to invite Mr. Wickham!” Lydia Bennet trilled the name breathlessly, casually. “He’s a credit to his profession!” Her verbal praise was cut off as her elder sister furtively said something that brought an end to her silly display. Darcy watched it all as if from a great distance, wondering how they all appeared so calm, as though the man within their group was trustworthy. As though this new acquaintance was anyone other than the man who tried to ruin Darcy’s sister. As though he was a delightful new plaything to amuse and flatter and not a heartless rake that preyed on innocent young women, a credit to nothing so much as villainy and sin.

_Wickham._ The name reverberated through him like a physical blow, mercilessly confirming the dismay growing in his heart. Perverse pleasure stabbed through bitter disappointment at the clear discomfort on the other man’s face. A visible pallor washed out his coloring next to the lurid red of his jacket, his skin nearly matching the snowy white of the shirt collar visible above the golden trim of the uniform. It filled Darcy with vindictive triumph that he too was dumbfounded at this intrusive amalgamation of providence. Of all the places in all of England, Wickham was here in Hertfordshire ingratiating himself with the only woman who had ever managed to catch Darcy’s attention. A woman whose grip on him rivaled the sirens of Greek mythology.

As their eyes remained heatedly locked, Wickham’s expression shifted to one of offense at Darcy’s coldness. He inclined his head with narrowed eyes, as timorous an acknowledgement as he dared, extended like a withered olive branch surreptitiously tipped with poison.

Elizabeth’s eyes followed their silent exchange with obvious bewilderment as Darcy came to appreciate the awful scope of his predicament. Refusing to recognize Wickham would only strengthen her impression that he was nothing but proud and disagreeable.

Even though he ought not care, the idea that Wickham would be the one to provide reinforcement of her poor opinion seemed almost unspeakably unjust. Her earlier besotted expression left little doubt that Wickham had already worked his charm upon her. What of his lies did she already know? And which lies did she believe? All of them? Or merely the ones that cast him in the worst light? These were, after all, the only lies Wickham ever told.

But Darcy refused to respond in kind; not even for the sake of propriety could he pretend that he did not want the man’s head on a pike. He tasted bile in his mouth as he suppressed a savage desire to jump the stream and pummel him. This man of all men least deserved even the most menial gesture of respect, especially from him. If Elizabeth chose to think badly of him for this failing, so be it.

Without a word, he jerked Admiral’s reins aside and galloped away, turning his back on them both.


	8. These Mortals Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last! A bonafide, genuine NEW chapter never before published! Yay! Now, don't expect anything too exciting yet... We're not at the ball quite yet - that will be chapter 9. Thanks for bearing with me as the updates are surely going to slow down! I'll try not to take YEARS in between this time, though. My goal is no more than a month, so feel free to keep me accountable!
> 
> Also, I recently watched "Austenland" for the first time. I promise to only write fanfiction for that movie if I have writer's block here... promise. Cross my heart. :oD
> 
> See if you can spot the "Wicked" reference. (The musical.) Enjoy!

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~

Darcy was all but blind as he and Admiral barreled away. In the madness of escape, he cared not whether Bingley kept up with him or even followed at all. Either way, it would have gone unnoticed. So unduly focused was his flight that he only headed in the opposite direction with no regard as to destination. 

The anger that gripped him was irrational and suffused with darkness, somehow managing to eclipse even the rage he’d felt at discovering his heartbroken sister flailing in the devastation left behind by Wickham at Ramsgate. His heart thundered heavily along with the horse’s hooves, pounding vitriolic blood against his eardrums as his vision teemed red at the edges. 

This was anger born of jealously, unlike anything he’d ever felt and yet containing a familiar echo of something long buried — hot, uncontrollable, all consuming. Over and over he saw Elizabeth looking from him to Wickham and back again, her eyes full of confusion and then accusation. And he felt as he had over ten years ago, watching his father shower easy affection and trust upon Wickham with whom he nurtured a connection he simply could not achieve with his own son.

Wickham, who could make him smile and bring him happiness in a way Darcy could not. Wickham, who seemed more like a son to him toward the end than did Darcy.

The injustice of it all made him want to scream into the air ripping past him. Long tucked away resentments rose to the surface, a forgotten layer of mud being stirred from the depths of a normally placid lake. Brackish and swirling, choking out his reason and preventing all coherent thought with liquid clouds of billowing, roiling fury. Unbearable pressure built in his chest, preventing any but the shallowest breath; his head swirled nauseously as spots began to dance before his eyes. Were he not atop a horse, he strongly suspected he would be trembling, a thought that only served to intensify the humiliation of it all. 

Through this, he was gradually aware of his hands beginning to ache from the fierce grip he had on the reins. He only began returning to himself when Admiral made a loud, uncomfortable whinny at this harsh and sudden turn of events. Darcy pulled up sharply, allowing the animal to come to a staggering stop, realizing how unintentionally hard he’d pushed the horse in the midst of this unprecedented submission to emotion.

Swearing viciously, he loosed the reins, flinging them from his fingers in horror so they bounced against Admiral’s neck. His trapped breath released in a shaky gush that only prompted his system to draw air right back in to pacify deprived muscles. If he didn’t feel horrible enough, the sight of Admiral’s similarly heaving sides was enough to shame him still further. He wanted desperately to lay this on Wickham, too, but knew the blame lay only at his own feet for being so carried away by his anger that he forgot entirely the importance of caring for his aging horse’s comfort.

Such was his self-recrimination in that moment that he quite stubbornly discarded the fact that he was only human, after all. Occasions in which Darcy overreacted were so few and far between that he never failed to castigate himself more strongly than anyone who might have merely born witness to the failure of his self-possession, let alone those who might have taken offense at it.

_How did this happen?_

Why in heaven’s name did it have to be _Wickham_ of all people who drew Elizabeth’s eye? Some unknown person he could have dealt with, most likely by instantly heaping various imaginary, malevolent indiscretions upon the stranger who had the temerity to capture her attention. Or, if taking up against the other party didn’t work, he could blame weakness of character on Elizabeth’s part for drawing her to someone with the limited prospects of a foot soldier. 

He couldn’t do either with Wickham. First, because he _knew_ , intimately of the man’s very real, very malevolent indiscretions, and second because he knew _exactly_ how persuasive and convincing Wickham could be when it worked in his favor. Elizabeth likely had no experience dealing with someone so deceptive, so cunning; it was hardly her fault she fell prey to his flattery. Dozens of men and women before her had done the same.

Not that any of it mattered. She was free to take up with as many members of the militia as she wanted, it made no difference to him, he reasoned. It was only because he knew the level of Wickham’s perfidy that he felt this absurd jealousy and concern for her innocence, surely.

Wickham was dangerous. And no matter how he felt about any of the young women in the area, he certainly felt sick at the thought of any of them falling victim to Wickham in the way Georgiana had. The horrid man would not hesitate to do so if he could profit from it somehow and he feared it would not necessarily matter if there was money involved.

After all, there were other things men wanted from women. Things that haunted dreams and could leave behind an unspeakable ache.

Why was Wickham here anyway? What could he be playing at now, taking up military service when he’d shown less than the smallest inclination in that area in the past? He must have been desperate, to be sure, to enter into such a structured existence so wholly unlike his usual dissipation. Aside from that anomaly, though, what capricious twist of chance had placed him in the very regiment that would end up in Hertfordshire at the same time as Darcy? With the whole of the British Empire available, why here?

Darcy's thoughts naturally turned to his past dealings with the man.

There was a time not so very far in the past when the sight of Wickham was welcome to him. There was a time when there was much Darcy would have done to see him happy and successful. After all, the man had practically been raised as his brother. His earliest memories involved racing about the grounds of Pemberley as a trio — he and his cousin, Robert Fitzwilliam, and Wickham — in all manner of frivolous recreation. He remembered learning alongside them everything from writing to throwing a ball to swimming to shooting a musket.

Wickham may have been the youngest of the three by a year or so, but he was by far the most precocious and certainly when compared with Darcy himself. Wickham was gregarious and reckless where Darcy was more quiet, reserved and cautious. As children, though, their differences mattered little to either, the balance of traits serving them well in their opposition, with Robert falling comfortably in between. They three spent hours adventuring through the Derbyshire countryside, practically inseparable but for their stations in life. Even when Robert was at home and it was only Darcy and Wickham, it mattered little.

The death of Lady Anne spelled an irrevocable turning point for everyone.

In the passing of his wife, Darcy’s father began to recognize possibility of his own mortal end looming ever more imminent. His health had grown somewhat more precarious than he liked after years of over-indulgence in food and drink, and his waistline broader than he cared to recognize. 

In the weeks after his wife’s funeral, the elder Darcy was gripped by a conspicuous zeal to dive head long into his son’s education in becoming Pemberley’s Master. Still in the midst of his grief, however, he assigned the rather weighty task of this education to his steward, Nigel Wickham, rather than tutoring the boy himself. Darcy, lost to his own sorrow, could do nothing but follow his father’s wishes and be quietly thankful for the distraction. 

As Darcy’s lessons in this area left him with less leisure time and took him more and more out of the company of his friends, George Wickham began to resent the consideration being given to Darcy’s future, particularly because it forced him to sacrifice his own father’s time and attention. Eventually, this led to George resenting Darcy himself.

Old Wickham’s favorite topic of conversation soon became the young master to the exclusion of all else. As George struggled with this, it became more apparent that while Darcy’s destiny was to be the Master, his was most certainly not. His was to be, if anything, the Master’s particular friend. Prior to this, he had never fully appreciated what it would mean to live perpetually in the substantial shadow of the Darcy name. Though Wickham’s education as a gentleman would have granted him access to the same levels of society, he had always known such admission would be accredited to the generosity of Darcy’s father. There would never be any mention of him within the most exclusive circles as anything more than the fortunate son of old Mr. Darcy’s steward and Fitzwilliam Darcy's friend.

For Wickham, it soon became clear that there was nothing more detestable in the world than playing second fiddle to anyone whether they be friend or foe. His pride simply wouldn’t allow for it.

Day after day, it was impressed upon Darcy the sheer volume of responsibility that would become his the day he assumed full control of the estate. As this volume grew and he began to understand it better, so too did his reserve grow. The time he spent with George was but a pale resemblance to their carefree days as children when it didn’t matter that Darcy’s future was inevitably the brighter of the two. Even their conversation became stilted as Darcy’s language shifted to that of a landowner with an estate full of concerns while Wickham’s vocabulary only became better versed in public house slang.

For, without Darcy’s influence on his time, and Robert being occupied by the commission purchased for him by his family, Wickham found himself frequently in the company of young men from Lambton and other surrounding villages whose manners and habits were quite different from those common at Pemberley. These were boys who already spent their days doing men’s work and had the roughened hands and scars to prove it. They teased 'baby George’ for being soft, proper, and conceited.

At least, they did at first.

So too began Wickham’s education. He learned that people more readily accepted his presence when he spoke and acted as they did. He learned that holding your drink and having a deft hand at cards could earn a fair amount of respect and money. He learned that practiced charm could get him what he wanted, including a substantial line of credit whether the funds to support it existed or not. He learned that flowery language and an engaging nature made up for what he lacked in education. 

In short, he learned that he was rather good at ingratiating himself by becoming whatever sort of man the situation demanded. He could ingratiate himself further by surpassing expectations of civility and manners just enough to dazzle people into giving him things to which he had no right whatsoever.

It was within the embrace of this new life that he swilled his first ale, experienced his first drunken brawl and discovered the true pleasures of a woman’s company. Men trusted him easily, and women found him disarmingly good looking. The same charm he worked on shopkeepers, he discovered, worked as equally well with members of the fairer sex of any age, a turn of luck he never hesitated to use to his advantage. 

One day, shortly before he and Darcy were scheduled to begin at Cambridge, Wickham found himself wandering the halls of Pemberley in pursuit of a maid who had recently been free with her favors. The path of that chase happened to lead him past the elder Darcy’s study. He stopped short at the unexpected greeting that issued from within. George had always thought the old man rather daft and pompous, but accepted the invitation of a game of chess nonetheless. He was, after all, ever in the man’s good graces and saw no profit in being otherwise. In addition, Pemberley’s port wine was second to none and Wickham had developed a taste for fine drink; old Darcy favored it enough to have a decanter close at hand. Surprisingly, he found he almost enjoyed old Darcy’s company. It gave him an opportunity he’d been lacking to hone his technique in gaining trust. The old man hardly noticed Wickham was in reality laughing _at_ him far more than _with_ him. 

In the course of that first meeting, it occurred to George that Darcy’s father was lonely, though it had been some time since the death of his wife. He knew the younger Darcy often kept too busy now to spend much time with his father; a situation neither seemed interested in amending. 

While Wickham might have taken that distance for granted as well, he now felt instinctively that this particular lapse could work in his favor, for he had come to view loneliness as a weakness begging to be preyed upon. He realized during one such afternoon of drink and game that the reason the man could not bear to shepherd his son in becoming Master of Pemberley was because the physical reminder of his wife was deemed too painful to endure. (Wickham found this laughable given the lack of what he perceived as real love between old Darcy and his wife. This, in and of itself, was laughable, considering Wickham neither understood real love nor would have recognized it if, indeed, it bit him on the arse.)

Henceforth, Wickham eagerly schemed to make himself everything Darcy was not, thereby entrenching himself that much more firmly with the old sot. In appearance, he was already light where Darcy was dark and bore little resemblance to the family line. He made himself free and available when Darcy was preoccupied, cheerful and blithe where Darcy was increasingly reserved and taciturn, unassuming and open where Darcy grew to be known as arrogant and aloof. 

As Wickham became an effective surrogate for the relationship old Darcy might have had with his son, his own resentments formed the cruelest kind of punishment possible for his old friend. He began to derive wicked enjoyment from Darcy’s distress over the relationship. It amused him that Darcy had only embraced the role of Master so thoroughly in the hopes of pleasing his father but in doing so, had only achieved the further removal of himself from his father’s life. In those moments, Wickham grew to relish a perverse sense of triumph at the hurtful look of betrayal in Darcy’s eyes that couldn’t quite be masked.

In time, Darcy learned to ignore the cutting pain of hearing his father’s laugh and seeing his smile far more frequently when the company included George Wickham. He grew accustomed to the dull ache of finding the two of them together, seemingly engrossed in secret affairs of which he had no knowledge. He hid George’s many escapades at Cambridge from his father’s attention knowing such scandal would upset him greatly. He closeted away the bitterness he felt at the consolation old Darcy provided to a seemingly distraught George at Nigel Wickham’s funeral, comfort he was unable or unwilling to give his own son when his mother died. He supported Wickham’s decision to leave Cambridge to return to Pemberley in the midst of that supposed grief. He forced himself to forget how it felt to see a man he’d once worshipped be drawn in by Wickham and yet pay his son almost no mind at all.

Later, he would even convince himself to ignore the creeping suspicion that it was Wickham’s presence that had somehow driven the elder Darcy to an early grave. He had no foundation for this suspicion and probably never would, but it did not escape his notice that his father’s adherence to ‘all things in moderation’ (a favored recommendation of his in years past) went out the window when it came to drinking or smoking cigars with Wickham.

Darcy could still remember the conversation that passed between himself and Wickham only weeks after the funeral. By that time, Darcy had taken his father’s study as his own at the urging of Mrs. Reynolds, who gently reminded him that he was officially the Master now, though he had been acting as such for several years by that time. 

He’d taken the study with great reluctance and in spite of the fact that every time he entered the room, the presence of his father was so strong he was hit with a wave of refreshed grief that nearly brought him to his knees. The same memories made him endeavor to quell this reaction by reliving the many times his father had admonished him for showing too much emotion when he was a child, telling him not to be so thin-skinned. He forced himself to sit at his father’s desk for hours at a time doing absolutely nothing but working to shutter up the raging grief inside him.

It was in the midst of one of one of these sessions that Wickham came to see him. 

The will had been read several days prior, including the fairly recent provision that set aside the living at Kympton especially for him. Though Darcy had known of the will’s contents for some time, it was still discomforting to have it be stated aloud in the dispassionate voice of his father’s solicitor. 

Such was the direction of his thoughts when a preemptive knock sounded from the door as Wickham entered the room. Darcy frowned automatically at Wickham’s failure to observe the propriety of being announced first by the staff. Instead, he acted like a member of the family who needed no introduction. By this time, he and Wickham were not on the best of terms though neither had gone so far as to state plainly that the pretense of any friendship between them had died along with Darcy’s father. Darcy had suspected for some time that Wickham often tailored this sort of behavior specifically to unnerve him.

Without preamble, Wickham had stated frankly that he was there about the living, a conversation Darcy dreaded having. If Wickham wanted to take it now, the responsibility of how and when to dislodge the current rector would fall to him. Yet before he could much anticipate the need to relate this to Wickham, he was met with unpleasantness of a completely different kind as Wickham told him disinterestedly that he only wanted the value of the living, not the living itself.

“What do you mean?” Darcy had been unable to keep himself from asking. “My father was under the impression you wanted to join the church.” * _It was one of his dearest wishes*_ , he thought frantically. *W _hat do you mean by not taking it?*_ In his grief-stricken shock, he’d played right into Wickham’s hands.

“Oh Darcy, how naïve you are,” he’d drawled with a look of infuriating superiority. “I’m not about taking orders. I’m not sure where you father came up with that idea. I mean, really. Can you imagine anyone less suited to making sermons than I?”

In the end, if any good could be said to have come from Wickham’s presence at Pemberley during the previous years, it existed only in the happiness the son saw in his father once again, if only for a short time. Though the means hurt him, for the end result of his father’s happiness, Darcy would likely have sacrificed much more. Only in the memory of that happiness did he agree to surrender to Wickham the value of the living in one payment. 

It was all Darcy could do to keep his countenance as he wrote out a check to his former friend and watched him leave. He tried not to feel that his father would be thoroughly disappointed by his inability to somehow force Wickham to take the living so kindly left for him.

He tried not to feel like he’d failed him in this, too. 

If he made a point from that time on not to feel too strongly one way or another about anything or anyone, it was unconsciously done. Aside from his sister, the fact that he took to keeping the world at arm’s length rarely intruded upon his thoughts. For his sanity, he treated thoughts of Wickham as the old proverb suggests; that which is out of sight is therefore out of mind.

Until now, of course.

He had successfully avoided all the bitterness, all the jealously, all the hurt for so long that he managed to believe it no longer existed. Certainly there had been reminders of it after Ramsgate, but even then he’d justified the level of his anger with Wickham as being entirely on his sister’s behalf. 

No longer. Now he acknowledged it and called it by its name. Repeated the words in his mind again and again. 

_Loathing_. Unadulterated loathing. He loathed Wickham.

He hated Wickham and he hated himself for allowing his feelings to culminate in this sick jealousy involving, of all things, a woman. He hated that he’d allowed Wickham under his skin to the extent that he’d driven his favorite horse to lather. At that moment, he even hated Elizabeth for being so taken with such an obvious rake.

Appalled at himself, he dismounted roughly, realizing with dismay that not only was Admiral lathered, but his eyes wheeled about nervously, no doubt reacting to the emotion of his rider. Darcy sighed heavily and reached for the bridle, feeling that much worse when Admiral jerked away in alarm.

“Ho, there,” he murmured softly, attempting to exude a tranquility he did not feel. He made soft soothing sounds and stroked his face and next until the horse began to calm and breathe more deeply, Darcy all the while willing him to understand this wretched and inadequate form of apology. He’d never lost himself in such a way that directly affected the horse and he felt as though he offended a dear friend.

After several minutes of this, Admiral blew out a breath and nudged his shoulder hard, as though seeking to remind him of whose side he was on. That and, Darcy imagined, it was his way of saying, _Pull yourself together, man!_

Darcy glanced around, attempting to place his position to Netherfield, and recognized nothing around him. With a huff of frustration, he led Admiral to the top of a small rise to get his bearings. Still, he could see no landmarks by which to orient their position.

At long last, he spied the weather vane atop Netherfield's stable through the leaves of a large chestnut blocking his view of the house. In the imprudence of his flight, he had succeeded in bypassing Netherfield entirely and by a least half a mile to the west.

The sun was beginning to break through the clouds and the day was turning warm and humid, a fact Darcy was now all too aware of as sweat began to dampen his collar. His hat had become dislodged during their mad dash, and the sun beat down on his head with a strength that felt like high summer. To cool his body and mind, he wished for a breath of air that seemed strangely absent in the heaviness that all too readily matched the feeling lingering in his chest. Roughly, he tugged loose the knot of his cravat and aimed his steps towards Netherfield as Admiral trudged tiredly behind him.

As he approached, he could see Bingley and several grooms in front of the stable door in animated conversation. The boy Edmund was already in the process of rubbing down Bingley's horse as his father, the head groom, spoke with the rider, and a third groom removed the saddle and took it inside. Darcy sighed as he recognized the level of Bingley's worry immediately, both in his posture and in the disarray of his hair. Both his own hat and Darcy's were clutched in one of Bingley’s hands, the other making yet another pass through his bright red mane. Darcy could easily imagine he was the subject of their discourse.

Edmund was closest to him as he approached and the boy gave a very loud, obviously false cough that got the attention of Bingley and his father.

“Ah, Darcy! There you are! My goodness, are you alright?” Again, Bingley ran his hand through his impossibly mussed hair. Darcy suspected he looked quite disheveled himself. “You and Admiral quite outstripped us and then I lost sight of you. What on earth happened?”

“Ah…” Darcy glanced at where Edmund and his father gawked at the two of them curiously.

“Er… Allow me to take care of Admiral for you, sir,” Edmund’s father said pointedly, getting the hint that Darcy wanted to talk to Charles alone. “Come along, Edmund.” This last he said sternly, for it was clear the boy was reluctant to leave when something exciting was happening. 

“But—“ Edmund started.

“Now, please,” his father said louder as he walked Admiral past the threshold. Darcy could all but see the boy’s shoulders slump a bit in disappointment and was slightly amused but felt little like laughing. If he did, he had a feeling it would sound as hysterical as he’d felt not twenty minutes ago. Instead, he watched as Edmund glumly took the reigns of Bingley’s gray and started trudging after his father. Charles stepped closer to him as the boy left, holding out Darcy’s hat.

“What is it, Darcy? You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“I— I have to say, it felt a bit like seeing one.” He took the hat gingerly, as though it were the ghost in question.

“Really? I don’t—“

“Charles, first, I must apologize. I shouldn’t have left you like that, it was terribly rude of me. I’d be happy to explain. Perhaps inside? After we’ve… had a moment to refresh?” Darcy wanted a moment to get his thoughts in order before trying to explain to Bingley why the sight of a menial militia member had sent him into such a fit. Bingley, ever the consummate host, was happy to oblige.

In a quarter hour, the two of them met in the sitting room in which Darcy had penned the letter to his sister while Elizabeth was at Netherfield. Darcy had spent the intervening time setting his appearance to rights and wondering whether or not he ought to tell Bingley about Ramsgate. In the end, he concluded his friend would understand that it was to be held in strictest confidence. Bingley needed to know the truth of Wickham since he was now bound to play host to the man.

Darcy wouldn’t put it past Wickham to pick pockets and possibly even steal from the house while he was in attendance. Bingley could at least warn the servants to keep an eye out.

When he entered the room, Bingley was already pacing up and down near the windows. He stopped as Darcy gestured for him to sit and took a seat on the opposite couch.

“Please, have a seat, Charles.”

“Darcy, I really am quite worried. Are you alright?” 

Darcy felt abashed at his friend’s clear concern for him and was all the more embarrassed to have caused him alarm at a time when he was already feeling the stress of the upcoming ball. He wondered at the young man’s ability to retain his head of thick, reddish blonde hair given the number of times he ran his fingers through it when feeling pressure such as he had of late.

“Honestly…. I am fine, Charles, thank you. I must ask… do you remember when I told you about the boy I grew up with named Wickham?” Bingley paused, his eyes narrowing as he shuffled through older memories.

“I believe so,” he stated slowly as it came back to him. “Ah, yes… was he not the one who was suppose to take the living at Kympton but refused it? The living your father left to him in his will?” Darcy gave a wry chuckle, nodding.

“That’s the one.”

“Oh!” Bingley exclaimed as he began putting the two together. “Oh, no… surely not.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You mean to say… that was him? The man who chose not to join the church is now a soldier? From what you told me, he hardly seemed the type to do either,” Bingley frowned in surprise.

“You don’t know the half of it, unfortunately,” Darcy grumbled sourly. Hoping it wasn’t a dreadful mistake, he went on to give a brief overview of what transpired at Ramsgate, leaving out the more delicate details regarding his sister.

There was a point at which Darcy had hoped Georgiana and Charles might take a match one day. Though she was too young at the time she was first introduced to the Bingleys, he had thought it would be worthwhile to watch her interactions with Charles to see if she developed feelings over time. Also, the more time they spent together under conditions that lacked the pressure to marry quickly, the better. The more rapport they developed, the more comfortable she might be with the idea of one day marrying him.

Though Charles and Georgiana got along perfectly well, she exhibited no more partiality toward him than she did any other acquaintance; he saw no sign his sister might one day feel differently about him. Marriages had been built on much less, though, and she did feel an easy, friendly affection for him. Ultimately, he thought he might revisit the matter one day if Bingley did not marry on his own before it was time for Georgiana to be out in society.

After Ramsgate, though, he did come to wish they had shown a little more feeling towards one another. Then at least he would know his sister was marrying an honorable man who’s temperament and flaws were already in evidence. As it was, he dreaded the day Georgiana came out and started to draw the attention of suitors entirely unknown to him. He did not relish the thought of having to divine those men who were only seeking her fortune from those who were not. 

He held no illusions about his own fate when it came to matrimony — he needed a match that brought honor to the family name whether he loved the woman or not. Georgiana, however, would wither away in a relationship in which there was no love. He simply couldn’t see her thriving that way.

In any case, the most recent interactions between Charles and his sister signified no change in the way they saw each other and that had been before Miss Bennet entered the picture. Given his behavior toward the latter, he imagined the possibility of Charles joining the Darcy family was even more remote.

Darcy couldn’t quite bring himself to regret not having Caroline Bingley as a confirmed relation rather than simply the sister of a friend. She needed no further reasons to invite herself to Pemberly whenever she could manage.

Charles listened with great concern as his friend related the Ramsgate tale involving the duplicitous Wickham. When Darcy had finished, Bingley once again ran a hand through his hopeless mane.

“I am so sorry to hear that… I had no idea, Darcy, really. I can rescind the invite to the militia if you don’t wish him to attend. O-or I could find a way to speak with Colonel Forster and ask him to ensure Wickham is elsewhere that night—“

“Oh, no, please, Charles. I don’t want you to change anything you’ve done. If Wickham shows his face here, I can handle it,” he interrupted with much more confidence than he felt. “I suspect he will not, however, because while he doesn’t mind making mischief, he has never been one to seek out conflict. He can’t be sure I won’t have revealed the truth about him to everyone present.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind disinviting them.” Charles tight smile revealed that he might, however, mind having to tell Caroline he was disinviting them.

“Yes. I am certain. Now that I know he is here, I shall be more prepared to see him. I was taken quite off guard, seeing him walking with the Bennets.”

“Oh, yes!— The Bennets! Er — do they know about him, do you think?”

“I doubt it. Wickham is very engaging and modest when he wants to be. I don’t wish to alarm them but they ought to be warned…”

“Shall I try to relate this to Ja— er, Miss Bennet?” 

Darcy chuckled again, both at the situation and Charles’ slip. “No. No, I will take care of it. It is my responsibility. And I trust that otherwise, this matter will stay between us.” He stated the last plainly, just so there was no possibility of confusion.

“Of course, Darcy,” Bingley drawled with exasperation. “I would never do anything to hurt your sister. She is as dear to me as my own.” Darcy nodded, thinking briefly again about the lost hope of Bingley as Georgiana’s husband.

“I believe you, Charles. I apologize for speaking so bluntly. And… thank you,” he said simply. Bingley waved a hand as if to suggest it was nothing.

“Speaking of sisters.” He cleared his throat, straightened his coat, and squared his shoulders in preparation. “It is past time I seek out my own and attempt to keep her from going mad.” Darcy merely raised his eyebrows with a slight grimace to indicate he did not in any way envy his position.

As Bingley left the room, Darcy made his way over to the windows and stood for a time gazing into the distance in thought, considering how best to address the issue.

On one hand, there was Colonel Forster, head of the regiment. He debated the possibility of alerting the colonel of Wickham’s abominable past deeds. He couldn’t see his way clear to it on several fronts; one, he was loath to give any more consequence, whether in time or thought, to the man who had so nearly ruined his sister and two, he was all but certain that any interference in Wickham’s career in the regiment would be seen no more kindly than his ‘refusing’ the living in Kympton to him. There was little chance of improving his image to anyone to whom Wickham had already told the sorry tale; he could only make himself look worse.

On the other, there was Elizabeth. It was almost certain she was one of those who believed whatever Wickham had told her so far. Anything he did that impacted Wickham’s chances would only solidify him in her mind as an unpleasant, cruel fellow intent on ruining a former friend. Additionally, it was always a possibility (however remote) that Wickham genuinely wanted to make a fresh start in this military venture of his... perhaps he should let well enough alone one way or another and allow Wickham to succeed or fail on his own merits.

_No... I cannot. What if I say nothing and he tries to ruin her? I would never forgive myself._

There was nothing for it. He would only speak to Colonel Forster if worse came to worse, but he would have to tell Elizabeth somehow. If nothing else, it felt vitally important that she stay away from him… since she was the only one he knew for certain had captured Wickham’s attention. He could only hope there was no one else for the moment. 

Given that the ball was mere days away, the most logical option would be to ask her to dance with him. Unfortunately, this would have implications to the community he would be unable to take back. One dance, however, was less likely raise expectations than what would transpire between Jane Bennet and Charles (yet another situation he must keep an eye on).

For Fitzwilliam Darcy, it seemed, the Netherfield ball was destined to be a busy evening. Whatever risk he would face in dancing with Elizabeth, it would be worth it to warn her about Wickham before it was too late.


	9. There is No Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry it has taken this long to update... grad school and life in general have swallowed me up and spit me out a few times this year, but I promise I am trying to keep up with this story. Clearly, I'm not doing the best job of it! Do forgive me, as Mrs. Bennet would say. You'll be happy to know that part of what brought me back was the series Sanditon that was shown recently in the UK. I'm sorry, but can Theo James be any more attractive? I think not. I want to write for Sidney and Charlotte for the same reason everyone else is doing so - Andrew Davies and his damn realistic ending. Damn, damn, damn...
> 
> You might ask how I was able to view this series given that I live in the US and not the UK and it hasn't aired here yet... but you all are a smart lot. I'm sure you can figure it out. Do yourself a favor and see it. You won't regret it, but be careful of unscrupulous websites. Just sayin'.
> 
> Reviews give me life and encourage me to keep writing! This chapter will probably be updated as I edit though, so please ignore any mistakes for the time being. I just wanted to get something up.
> 
> Even if you don't review, please enjoy! :o)

Nervousness was not in the retinue of Darcy’s emotions. While some with a temperament similar to individuals such as Charles Bingley might be plagued by sweaty palms and a quivering stomach when anxious, Darcy was not. Rarely did he stumble for words or feel the need to occupy trembling hands. Pacing was an activity not in his nature, at least not when undertaken for the alleviation of nerves. Impatient pacing was altogether different, after all. No, Darcy’s actions were deliberate, controlled and reasonable.

At least, that is what he told himself. 

Rather, that is what he would have liked to believe about himself, if he had his druthers. So dearly did he want to believe that he had enough control over the exterior expression of his emotions, he was generally successful no matter his true feelings. In other words, believing it made it so.

Or, again… so he liked to believe. Fortunately, he was mostly correct. He wore many subtle masks and wore them well.

Then again, he would also have liked to believe that seeing Wickham once more wouldn’t have reduce him to running (or riding full speed atop his poor horse, as was the case) flat out in the opposite direction.

_And we saw how well that played out, didn’t we? You made an utter fool of yourself._

Now, if pressed, he would admit to a small amount of anxiety related to certain social engagements but would staunchly deny that its defining characteristics could be described as * _nervousness*_. He disliked balls and dancing in general (for reasons previously stated) which made for a certain anxiousness of mind. He still would not say that attending a ball made him nervous, just as dancing did not make him nervous by itself. It gave them too much power, too much consequence, too much entirely for one who called himself the Master of an estate such as Pemberley. 

If anything, when he was of a mind to do so, he thought himself rather a good dancer.

 

However, along with several lessons he was unwittingly in the process of learning, Fitzwilliam Darcy was coming to the belated realization that his ideas about the world to which he belonged and schools of thought to which he was accustomed were not as simple and orderly as he would have liked. In short, he did not know all he thought he did and he certainly did not know everything. The education he thought long complete by dint of his age was, as the universe would have it, still missing several vital pieces.

For example, the nerves he would have, until recently, claimed he rarely experienced seem to have ferociously awoken in their own right in an alarmingly short time frame. It was as if the worst of them had been lying in wait for the majority of his twenty-eight years to rear up at the most inopportune moment possible. 

More specifically, they must have been waiting for his attention to be genuinely engaged by a woman. Said engagement was apparently the signal for surreptitious nerves to awaken with an almighty roar that shook the foundations of all he knew to be true about himself.

All this to say that mere hours before the Netherfield ball started, Darcy was experiencing nervous feelings of an intensity he never had before, if his memory were reliable. Even if his memory happened to be failing him, in truth, it made no difference. He could not sit still, found himself wanting to pace the floor, and had to (casually) utilize a handkerchief to dry damp hands on more that one occasion. Due to this, he waited as long as possible to change clothes for the ball so as to keep from sullying his shirt and cravat with odious sweat.

To say the least, he was not best pleased by any of this, expressly since the day before had seen him in relatively normal spirits. 

_Pull yourself together, for goodness sake_.

He’d meticulously spent the last full day before the ball narrowing down what he wanted to relate to Elizabeth about Wickham and how to go about telling her this information during the course of one dance. This meant he needed to choose his words specifically to ensure the message came across because it might very well be his only opportunity. A dance only lasted so long and he did not want to enflame the expectations of her family by asking for a second simply because he forgot to impart something of import.

On some level, he wished it were possible to simply corner Elizabeth and advise her something to the effect of, “Wickham is not what he appears to be — he is a rake of the worst sort and you should remove yourself from his presence post-haste,” but he knew better than to think that would work. 

If anything, it would make her hate him even more than she seemed to already.

The due course of this focus on the discussion soon to be at hand served as a more than adequate distraction; any anxiety he might have had regarding the ball was suppressed by this consideration. He went to bed the night before feeling fairly secure in what was going to happen the next day. He would speak to Elizabeth by asking her to dance early, take that time to tell her about Wickham and spend the rest of the evening observing Bingley and Miss Bennet to get a better sense of their attachment to each other.

Simple enough.

In light of this, the fact that he was once again going to be in Elizabeth’s bodily presence had (strangely) gone overlooked, no doubt some sort of defense mechanism that had allowed him one more day of peace before he saw her again. This is not to say that he didn’t know she needed to be present in order to both dance with and speak to her, but rather, he did not take into consideration that he, himself… physically… was going to be near this woman again. 

A woman about whom he’d been dreaming. A woman who would be dressed in her best white finery. A woman whose touch he could not forget and simultaneously resented because he did not understand and could not anticipate the reactions of his own body. A woman he would now have a perfectly legitimate and appropriate reason to touch during the course of a dance. 

He could only pray she would be wearing gloves.

He rather hoped she wouldn’t.

_Good lord. This is ridiculous_.

For whatever reason, thinking about the situation in quite that way had failed to intrude upon his senses until he woke up morning of the ball.

Upon waking, intrude upon him it did and in high style.

_Dear god… I’m going to purposefully dance with Elizabeth Bennet tonight. I’m going to touch her again, be close enough to look in her eyes, read her expression..._

Following this thought were several ungentlemanly curses that need not be repeated. Given the level of Darcy’s disquiet, one must forgive him.

Indeed, from the moment he opened his own eyes that morning, it dropped on him like a stone from above, directly on the heels of waking from yet another licentious dream that seemed unduly centered on Elizabeth’s hands — more specifically, her hands on his body. Hands running through his hair, untying his cravat, unbuttoning his coat, gliding along his cheek, even movements as innocuous as brushing lint from his person filled his head for what felt like the entire night, not to mention her lithe fingers teasing him in other, unmentionable areas.

Nothing else, it seemed, could occupy his thoughts for long; he felt slightly sick to his stomach and found his heart racing now and then with the tantalizing possibility of feeling her skin again. 

_You’d think I’ve literally never felt the touch of a woman before_ , he groused to himself bitterly. 

Fortunately, the Netherfield household, staff excluded, spent much of the day resting up for the evening’s frivolity. Darcy was perfectly content with spending much of the late morning and afternoon alone, considering his face felt flushed for the better part of several hours after leaving his bed. He couldn’t seem to get the dreams out of his head to an extent that hadn’t afflicted him in some time. In fact, he awoke in a state unlike anything he’d experienced since his youth, one that embarrassed him more than he could ever (or would ever) say.

It was odd, indeed, that his dreams that night had produced such a condition, for he had definitively envisioned far steamier scenarios.The more he thought on it (for he had little choice in the matter, so he might as well try to figure the thing out) the more he concluded it had to have happened because of a key change. This most recent dream being the only one in which he remembered Elizabeth being the initiator of requiting their desire for one another.

Their _dream selves’_ desire _,_ that is.

In his nighttime imaginings, her hand grabbed his own hurriedly as she led him to what had to be a the shared sitting room between the two bedchambers traditionally used by the Master and Mistress of Pemberly. Lustily, she kissed him the moment the door clicked shut, moving him towards the settee that sat before a fireplace blazing with cheerful heat. Gripping his jacket, she urged him to sit with a forceful shove before straddling his lap with hiked skirts. In the dream, there was nothing underneath but stockings and chemise.

He hands slid underneath her clothing, the discovery of her skin making him moan as he explored her legs and hips, reveling in any chance he got to touch a part of her that was not only normally clothed, but also never touched by anyone other than the two of them. Even as he found her wet and ready, her eagerness had her reaching between them, pulling the front of his shirt free with a sure but trembling touch. He cried out again as she freed him from the confines of his breeches and enveloped him with no preamble, silencing him with her mouth and stealing his breath at the ferocity of her need for him.

What followed was a rushing frenzy that rocked him to the core both in the dream and without, and left him sticky and bereft upon the dream’s conclusion in the real world. Never before had the dreams resulted in so dramatic an impact on his body. At least, he equivocated, it hadn’t happened in such a distinctly... adolescent way.

Due to this, he felt perfectly justified in breaking his fast in his rooms rather than joining the Bingleys. Nothing short of having this occur at Rosings and in the vicinity of his Aunt Catherine could have left him more mortified than the idea of facing the Bingleys after this indignity. He could only be grateful Joseph would be the only one who could potentially notice his heightened state of… agitation. And even that was horrifying.

Otherwise, he felt quite convinced, no matter how illogical, no matter how foolish, the truth would invariably be written upon his face.

He took Admiral on a brief and calm ride in the early afternoon and spent the rest catching up on correspondence and paperwork in the library. Fortunately for his state of mind, Caroline Bingley put in no appearance whatsoever and her brother only popped in briefly to say hello and, likely, to get a respite from the preparatory madness that had enveloped his sister.

For when Darcy finally exited the library to begin his personal preparations for the ball, he noticed more than one servant rushing down the hallway as fast as they could go without running. Each of them looked harried in what he suspected was a unique reaction to the lady of this particular house — a lady whose voice he could hear loudly exclaiming from down the hall that someone was daft to think she meant for that to go there and to get it out of her sight immediately. 

Darcy quickly made his way to his rooms using a circuitous route with the single object of avoiding that part of the house lest he be somehow drafted into moving tables and chairs about. Though he thought it unlikely, he did not trust Caroline not to rope him into activity with which he had no desire to help.

It had hardly escaped his notice that she did tend to behave far more solicitously toward him than other people. 

Fortunately exempt from greeting guests at a house than was not his own, Darcy took his time with his ablutions and made his way downstairs only after the arrivals had begun. Even then, he hung back for a time on the first level where he could see the comings and goings of carriages, phaetons and curricles scurrying up and away from the lower doors.

He tried his utmost to avoid thinking of the fact that the first time he had felt Elizabeth’s skin was when she was departing in her family’s carriage near the same set of lower doors.

He failed utterly. Instead, the moment played over and over in his mind, the memory of her hand in his sending the same sensations coursing through him, making him feelsimultaneously hot and cold. Unconsciously, he rubbed the same offending fingertips together that had contact with her, as he remembered how completely uprooted he’d felt afterward.

In an effort to avoid thinking of this, he watched the flames of the large fires in front of the house grow brighter as dusk descended and more people arrived than he had previously thought lived in all of Meryton. Indeed, it seemed as though the invitation had been extended to the whole of Hertfordshire given the number and variety of equipage gracing the front drive of Netherfield that evening.

Still, he had to admit that the spectacle was impressive — ladies dressed in varying shades of white and cream next to men dressed either in regimental red or black and white coattails — the combination was pleasing to the eye and certainly lent a modicum of class that had been sadly lacking at the Meryton Assembly Rooms.

His first clue that the Bennets had arrived came in the sound of Mrs. Bennet’s voice carrying above the hum of conversation in the stairwell. Somehow he’d missed the arrival of their carriage. He could not hear her words until he started down the stairs, but recognized her grating pitch nonetheless. As he approached, it became clear that she was speaking of Charles and Miss Bennet, effusive once again in her praise of them both as the most wonderful creatures ever to fancy one another.

Then, he saw her.

Standing in the center of the foyer was the object of Darcy’s thoughts, achingly lovely in a filmy white dress that emphasized the elegant length of her unadorned neck. The small pearls gracing her hair looked like drops of snow that dared not melt into her carefully curled coiffure. Her skin gleamed against the sea of white around her and he swallowed hard upon seeing she had, once again, eschewed gloves. Vaguely, he knew hers to be an older style of gown but could not imagine one that could more perfectly emphasize her natural beauty. He’d have been unsurprised to find that Titania herself wore such a gown.

Elizabeth looked around the room with a searching gaze, not only taking in her surroundings, but clearly looking for someone. The uncomfortable lurch of his heart against his ribs told him she was likely looking for Wickham. 

_Damn the man._

Once again, he counted himself grateful for the amassed crowd, praying it would keep her from finding Wickham before Darcy could secure a dance with her. As such, he watched as she gathered her skirts and turned to make her way back down the length of the hall. 

Stepping behind her, he intended to get her attention so as to reserve the first dance but found himself completely arrested by the small curls of hair resting against the nape of her neck. He mind went blank except for an overwhelming urge to nuzzle his nose there as he had countless times in slumber.

Fortunately, his sense of self-preservation once again took over, directing his steps to follow her for only a moment before veering off into a doorway nearest his left. He stepped into the next room and paused, silently cursing his inability to retain his composure so soon after being in her presence again. So consumed was he by these thoughts that he failed to secure the first dance with her.

When next he spied her, she was standing with Miss Lucas, Miss Bennet, and a very short, odd looking man who appeared to be doing what Darcy had hoped to do himself. He watched with a frown as the man made a strange movement by rising to his toes before looking down at them as he spoke. There was no reference in his memory as to the identity of this man; Darcy was certain he did not know him, and yet something about the man tickled the edge of his memory. 

From the side the room, he watched the first dance progress and felt something inside him relax as he took in the obvious humor on Elizabeth’s face as she fought to keep from laughing at the small man’s antics. Though he hadn’t taken the notion seriously, it had crossed his mind that this man could represent another rival suitor for her attentions. Then he caught himself.

_You are not Elizabeth’s anything — other than acquaintance — and certainly not her suitor!_ The thought made his jaw and his stomach clench tightly.

After this, he decided to stop lurking at the edges of that particular room in favor of another. He kept his ear tuned to the song to which Elizabeth was dancing so he could mark its ending and find her when it had finished.

While he waited, he steeled himself for the necessary task of finding Wickham and somehow trying to prevent him from getting to Elizabeth first. In truth, he had no idea how to handle such a maneuver; he could only hope providence would be on his side and this time Wickham would be the one to turn tail.

It took him several minutes to traverse the handful of rooms being utilized for the ball. Though they were small in number, their size more than made up the majority of Netherfield’s main floor. As casual as he tried to be, he knew each group of red-coated men probably wondered why on earth he was scowling at them for no apparent reason.

Finally, it hit him — Wickham was nowhere to be seen because he wasn’t there at all. He had, in essence, turned tail by staying away, thereby allowing Darcy time to disseminate any information about him he wished. 

_Why, I could ruin his reputation in one night with a few well placed words in the right ears*_ , Darcy marveled. _*And I would have done if it didn’t also expose Georgiana. How like him to avoid the inherent messiness of having a shred of integrity._

It was at that moment that he noted the cessation of music for which he’d been waiting. Quickly, he headed toward the room across the hall where the dancing was held, relieved to have one stressor eliminated from his night.

And now to face the most vexing source of anxiety.

_Elizabeth Bennet_.

Knowing he was about to have to speak to her made his heart start to pound all over again. It’s increased rhythm in his chest was only made faster hearing that sound he would recognize anywhere, no matter how large the crowd.

It was the same sound that arrested him once before — that of Elizabeth’s laughter.

He saw her toward the end of the dance floor with her friend Miss Lucas, the two of them lost in giggles he suspected had something to do with Elizabeth’s erstwhile dance partner. Arm in arm, they swung around the door at the other end of the room that let out into the front of the entry hall. 

Darcy planted himself in their path so they would have no choice but to acknowledge him.

“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed upon nearly running into him. Genuine dismay sliced through him at watching her face go deliberately blank when she realized who was in front of her. A pause stretched almost too long as Darcy struggled to remember why he was, in fact, standing in her way. At last, he spoke.

“May I have the next dance, Miss Elizabeth?” He asked, pleased with the steadiness of his voice. The feeling did not last; he was so close to her he could plainly see the struggle behind her eyes. A part of her desperately wanted to say no or to be outright rude to him but he banked on her good manners preventing any such response.

He was right. Charlotte Lucas worked to suppress a smile at her friend’s predicament.

“You may,” Elizabeth finally spoke woodenly, with a confused resignation in her eyes. It could not have been more clear in that moment just how little she truly wished to dance with him. 

_No matter. All I need is for her to listen to what I have to say_ , Darcy reminded himself. _It matters not if she enjoys dancing with me._

The infernal voice in the back of his mind, however, whispered that it wasn’t true and the disappointment he felt confirmed it. He bowed hastily, taking his leave to find a place before the dance began.

Elizabeth and Miss Lucas disappeared briefly before the former joined the line of women opposite their partners on the dance floor. Upon her face was a carefully crafted attitude of nonchalance. Standing across from her, Darcy did his best to remember the speech he, too, spent time crafting with care. It started, _Miss Elizabeth, I asked you to dance to discuss your association with Mr. Wickham…_

But try as he might, with Elizabeth now standing before him, his recollection was entirely blank beyond those opening words. Instead, he was again enthralled by the lovely length of her neck where he had pressed numerous kisses during the night in his dreams.

_Damn it — To discuss your association with Wickham and — what comes next?_ He cursed to himself in desperation.

Occupied as he was with racking his mind for the next words, he failed to say anything at all as the dance began. Sure enough, the moment their hands connected, the familiar tingling fire spread from the tips of his fingers upward and his focus was instantly absorbed by the sensation. 

Such was his attention to her, the moment Elizabeth spoke, his reply came quickly after, much to the surprise of both.

“I love this dance,” she intoned flatly.

“Indeed. Most invigorating,” came out of his mouth. He wanted to wince at how lifeless and stiff he sounded. _Invigorating?!_ That _is the best you can do?_

The dance wasn’t even a particularly lively one.

Another silence.

“It’s your turn to say something, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth prodded.“I talked about the dance. Now you ought to remark on the size of the room or the number of couples.” The urge to roll his eyes was powerful. Again, she took it upon herself to opine on his behavior. If she wished to play a game in which impertinence was the currency, he was all too ready. In fact, it made the nerves jumping around in his stomach calm some, and burned away the fog in his mind as the sparring began.

“I’m perfectly happy to oblige. Please advise me of what you’d like most to hear,” he returned _. Hah,_ he thought with triumph.

“That reply will do for present,” she supplied instantly, with that infernal arching of her brows inamusement. His triumph crashed down heavily.

He had no idea what to do with such a statement. _Exactly how is she so good at this?_

Another pause stretched.

“Perhaps by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. For now we may remain silent.” This was altogether too much. He needed to say something rather than let her continue to narrate her way through the nature of having a conversation while dancing, while they were actually in the process of dancing.

Again, he found himself wishing she would just behave in a manner he expected. Why did she insist on unsettling him at every turn?

“Do you talk, as a rule, while dancing?” He wanted to know; also he could think of nothing else to say.

“No,” she smiled, a quick lifting of the corners of her lips that threatened to arouse him.“No, I prefer to be unsociable and taciturn. It makes it all so much more enjoyable, don’t you think?” Now she had moved on to teasing him outright. 

_You don’t want to know what I think about, Lizzie._ The thought sizzled unbidden in his head as he tried valiantly to avoid thinking of the very dream he’d awoken with that morning.

The dance was progressing more quickly than he anticipated and he had yet to even mention Wickham’s name. He scrambled to create an opening that would allow him to broach the subject.

“Tell me, do you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?” A good, and innocent enough, question.

“Yes, we often walk to Meryton.” Elizabeth responded with just enough defiance to suggested she knew exactly why he was asking. “It’s a great opportunity to meet new people. In fact, when you met us, we’d just had the pleasure of forming a new acquaintance.” Ah, here it was — his opportunity, at last. 

What happened next would be the subject of many sleepless nights Darcy was to face in the months to come. Despite the favorable opening in the conversation, he couldn’t quite work it to his advantage and would somehow realize, only later, how thoroughly he bungled the entire thing. In his defense, it all happened so fast, he couldn’t be certain of what he’d been thinking while the rest of the conversation actually happened. 

“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners, he is sure of making friends,” he agreed.“Whether he is capable of retaining them is less certain.” True enough, but vague and certainly less than a warning.

“He’s been so unfortunate as to lose your friendship.” Elizabeth, it seemed, had been waiting for an opening of her own and jumped on it with gusto. “And I dare say that is an irreversible event?” The steps of the dance spun them to face each other and Darcystopped cold.

“It is. Why do you ask such a question?” The words were forceful, sharp. Elizabeth’s chin tipped up stubbornly, not giving an inch. 

“To make out your character, Mr. Darcy.”

“And what have you discovered?”

“Very little. I hear such different accounts of you as to puzzle me exceedingly.”

“I hope to afford you more clarity in the future.” The words were spoken sincerely but from a place he could not name and for which he had no explanation. They suggested he wanted Elizabeth to know him better, to see him clearly rather than through a lens of other peoples’ expectations. He had no idea why he said them in quite they way he did and would come to spend much time pondering over the tenderness of his tone in this one statement.

An otherworldly feeling gripped him then and the room melted away as the two of them revolved around each other, the steps of the dance causing them to ebb and flow like the sea in a give and take that suddenly seemed every bit as natural as the tide. It was as if dancing with Elizabeth transported him somehow to a place where only the two of them moved around the room as stringed instruments thrummed a haunting melody he would find himself humming now and then in idle moments. They might well have stepped into one of his dreams given the way he felt then, aroused and painfully aware of her presence, her eyes on him, her body and the feeling that they had most certainly done this before.

It was fortunate his body remembered the steps because the next thing Darcy became fully aware of was applause breaking out amongst the two lines of dancers. He could only describe the time in between as something of a fugue state in which only he and Elizabeth existed. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to organize his thoughts in the usual manner that would have had him castigating himself for overly romanticizing the moment.

Though it was difficult to tell, Darcy suspected the dance had discomfited Elizabeth more than she would have liked, too. They both clapped half-heartedly for the musicians before Elizabeth dropped a slow and deliberate curtsy before walking away.

Darcy was hard pressed to say just exactly what the hell had just happened but one thing he knew for certain was actually quite simple.

When it came to warning Elizabeth about Wickham’s true nature, he had failed utterly.

The rest of the ball sped by in a blur of black, white, and red, punctuated by more unseemly happenings than he’d ever had cause to experience in the space of one event. (This was most certainly not accurate, given the predilections of some of London’s high society, but any other such examples fled his mind in the moment. Let it not go unnoticed that more money one has the more judiciously bad manners may be treated.) All in all, it added up to an evening of ridiculous behavior that could not have convinced Darcy of the Bennet family’s unsuitability more if that had been the sole object of the night.

Whether it was the insolence of Mr. Collins introducing himself at the volume of a shout, the middle sister singing badly at the pianoforte and being subsequently hushed by her own father, the mother bragging about the expected marriage between Bingley and Miss Bennet, or the two youngest sisters’ generally abject sense of decorum, Darcy had his pick of reasons to dissuade Charles from pursuing this match.

His motivation in finding said reasons was heightened, it must be said, by the desire to distance himself not only from Elizabeth herself, but from the exceptional disconcertion he felt while dancing with her. It all made him long for the predictability of limited interaction and if there was one thing he assumed he could rely on happening predictably, it was inappropriate behavior on the part of others and his ability to judge them for it.

From the pinched look of disapproval marring Caroline’s face all night, Darcy knew he was hardly alone in his disapprobation. Though he betrayed little reaction, he had wholeheartedly agreed with her comment regarding the idea of someone producing a piglet for them all to chase after. 

It was shortly after guests began leaving that Darcy decided he’d had enough; there was little else, aside from something criminal, any Bennet family member could do that would cause his opinion to sink much lower. Fortunately, not being the particular host of the ball meant that he did not have to stand by and bid farewell, sacrificing his rest to the societal expectation. As a guest himself, he could retire in peace whenever he chose, a circumstance for which Darcy counted himself inordinately grateful. He retired shortly after Colonel Forster and his officers began encouraging the militia to retire back to their barracks with the reminder that their presence was expected at drill the next day at noon sharp.

Sleep came with blessed speed after Darcy ascended the stairs to his chambers. He was deep in slumber by the time Caroline issued the admonition, “Charles, you _cannot_ be serious,” to her brother on the balcony as the Bennets, amongst the last guests to leave, finally pulled away in their carriage with Mrs. Bennet still chatting away merrily. 

Elizabeth too, had quit the ball early, or at least earlier than her family. Though Darcy did not see her steal away in the Lucas’s family carriage, he might have been surprised to know that part of her reason for leaving was much the same as was his for retiring. For not only was Elizabeth embarrassed by her family’s antics, but she similarly had no idea what to make of the dance she shared with Mr. Darcy. A dance that, unsurprisingly, featured strongly in both their dreams when sleep finally came.


End file.
